Burning Hearts
by VintageVillain
Summary: Almost three years after the fall, Sherlock and Molly learn what was meant by "I'll burn the heart out of you"
1. Chapter 1

Burnt Hearts

Chapter One

Summary: Almost three years after the fall, Sherlock and Molly learn what was meant by "I'll burn the heart out of you."

Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to BBC's Sherlock. We all know who does. ACD and MOFTISS *Fist Shake*

It had been a shock to everyone when Molly Hooper had announced she was expecting a baby.

Mixed emotions flowed from her small group of friends. John, still heartbroken by the death of Sherlock, had congratulated her before retreating back into his grief again. Mrs Hudson had begun doting on her immediately, checking on her almost daily and inviting her around for tea at Baker St. at least once a week.

Greg Lestrade's reaction had been shocking. He had gone silent, congratulated her, and then left quickly, making up an excuse. If Molly hadn't known any better, he could have sworn that he had been hurt by the development.

No matter whom she had told, the first question out of each of their mouths had been the same: "Who is the father?"

"Nobody important" Molly had replied, tears glistening in her eyes, hoping that she came across as a brave woman scorned and not a love sick puppy. She had rehearsed her answer in the mirror numerous times, hoping it sounded sincere. "It was a stupid little fling, nothing really. Just after Sherlock died… I just… I needed someone. I'll be doing this alone"

One day, John Watson had snapped. Molly had been visiting him at Baker St. when she had taken a call. A university friend had heard about her situation and called to pass on her best wishes. John had sat in the living room silently, watching Molly as she told the voice on the other end of the line what she had told everyone else "No, no husband, or boyfriend. I'll be doing this alone"

"You won't you know" John said, as soon as she had hung up. "Be doing this alone, I mean. You have Mrs Hudson. And me. I am here too"

And it was true. By the middle of her second trimester, John was slowly starting to feel better with the prospect of living without Sherlock, putting as much of his energy into looking after Molly as possible. He escorted her to appointments and, embarrassingly, pre-natal classes.

As repayment, Molly had set him up on dates. Surprisingly, it was a young pre-natal nurse that had caught his attention. It had taken Molly a while to convince her that John wasn't the father of her child, but soon enough, John and Mary were dating.

Molly had taken her maternity leave from the beginning of her third trimester. Mrs Hudson had practically moved in with her, cooking and cleaning and looking after her. John was there daily, helping her when she became too large to comfortably mover around on her own. Greg had even visited her a few times in those last few months, sheepishly giving her compliments like "pregnancy suits you" and "you're glowing Mols"

The nine months of her pregnancy flew by. It had been an easy pregnancy and an easy labour. At 3:15 in the afternoon, Henry J. Hooper was born. Molly had cried the first time she had held the little boy in her arms. Looking up, she had also seen tears in John's eyes too.

Henry, named for Molly's father, had bright blue eyes and a head full of dark curls. He looked so much like his father. Even the small smirk the newborn infant carried was so familiar that Molly knew she would not be able to lie. Not to the ones who knew her, and him, the most.

When the nurse asked for details for the birth certificate, Molly sighed, and for the first time in almost a year told the truth about Henry's heritage. The name of the father was listed as Sherlock Holmes.


	2. Chapter 2

Burnt hearts

Chapter two

Molly kicked off her shoe and twisted her ankle, wincing as the cracking of her bones echoed around her blissfully silent lab. It was Friday, one of the quietest Fridays he had had in a very long time. Molly Hooper preferred busy days in the lab to the slower ones, which seemed to drag on endlessly. She was ready to go home, and the hands on the clock were almost ready to allow that.

She dug in her pocket and pulled out her mobile phone, lighting the screen, as much to see the time as it was to see the picture on it. The background image of Henry on his recent 2nd birthday always made her smile. Molly caught herself looking at it at least five times a day.

She had lucked out when it had come to children, winning some sort of unnamed lottery. Henry was an outgoing child who hardly ever fussed. He slept through the night very early on, and had never had so much as a cold. He never caused issues for his babysitters (usually 'Uncle John and Aunt Mary' or Mrs Hudson) but on the rare occasion that she had left her with a stranger, they never reported any issues. He was an intelligent child for his age and Molly had found herself buying toys developed for older children as blocks and teddy bears just didn't amuse him. He was a good looking baby also, dark brown curls and gorgeous blue eyes that looked into your soul. Every time she saw them, she was reminded of his father. They reminded everyone of Sherlock, it seemed.

So much so that it had been impossible to hide Henry's parentage from her friends. Mycroft had actually worked it out first, seeing the Holmes family resemblance in the young boy within the first hour of meeting him. Mycroft had visited her in the hospital, bringing her a gift, not only as congratulations on the safe arrival of her child, but as a thank you for everything she had done in the 'death' of Sherlock. The nurse had brought in Henry for a feeding, and Mycroft merely blurted "Does my brother know?"

Molly had hidden her eyes. Mycroft awkwardly adjusted his umbrella and looked longer at the infant. "I never thought Sherlock would make me an uncle." Mycroft had been doting on Henry ever since.

John had been the next to realise, but didn't announce that he had deduced for quite a while. It wasn't until Mrs Hudson had looked at the then six month old Henry and smiled "Dear, he looks so much like Sherlock" that John had brought forth his information.

"That's because Henry is Sherlock's son." Mrs Hudson laughed, unbelieving. Molly however had just stared at John. His eyes challenged her, but she shrugged. It was in the open then.

For safety reasons, he was still referred to as Henry Hooper. But as a group, they all started referring to the child as Henry Holmes.

Molly loved her son so much, and while the situation was not how she had seen herself raising a son when she had daydreamed of it as a child, she would not have had it any other way. Sure, Sherlock was still in hiding, and she was working hard at being a single mother, but the happiness and the enlightenment that Henry had brought to her life over the last two and a bit years was amazing. John had been right, she wasn't alone. Her wonderful family (including 'Uncle Greg') was exactly what she thought she had lost all those years ago when her father, the last of her biological family, had died.

Flicking off the lights in the morgue, she rode the elevator to the parking garage and across to her small, practical family car. Mycroft had purchased it for her soon after the birth of Henry, suggesting that it had not been his idea, but in fact Sherlock's that she had a reliable car. Molly hadn't spoken to Sherlock herself about Henry, but assumed that Mycroft, the only other person on the planet who knew Sherlock was still alive and how to contact him, was keeping his brother up to date.

While it had saved what could have been the hardest conversation of her life, Molly had of wished that she could have been the one to tell Sherlock about his son.

Molly didn't know what Sherlock thought of the situation, and that was something that plagued her every day. He had never made any attempt to contact her, but that could have also been for her own safety. He had kept lots of secrets for the safety of others of the years he had been gone. Plus, she had trouble picturing him as a father; so maybe, it was best for now that she was doing this without him.

It was a short drive to the day care where Henry was enrolled. It was an expensive place, again at the insistence of Mycroft. Molly, however, had insisted that she pay for the majority of her son's tuition. She didn't want to get used to the comfort of the Holmes fortune in case one day, suddenly, it was gone. The only thing stopping her from taking him out of the private institution and putting him in public school was that this place, even for its youngest pupils, had a gifted and talented programme. Even at age two, Henry was being academically challenged.

After an extended maternity leave, Molly had returned to work. She had immediately been offered a promotion, head of pathology, and although she wanted it and had been working for the increased recognition her whole career, her priorities had changed. Her son was more important. Molly had turned down the promotion and stayed in the pathology role she had, as it allowed flexibility of hours.

Friday was her favourite afternoon of the week. She would knock off at 4 instead of the usual 5, and pick up Henry early. They would then go to John and Mary's flat on Baker St. for dinner. Sometimes Mrs Hudson or Greg would join them. They would dote on little Henry until it was time to put him to bed in Sherlock's old room, then they would share a bottle of wine and talk. Adult conversation was amazingly stimulating.

Molly grabbed her handbag and entered the day care, ready to sign out her son. She was looking forward to this evening more than any other, as Mary had texted her that morning to tell her that this evening was a celebration. Molly anticipated it. John had finally popped the question.

Behind the desk at the day care was a young blonde woman, no older than 17. Molly had never seen her before but thought nothing of it. The teen was tapping her manicured nails on the desk and looking entirely bored. "Name?"

"Yes, Hi, I am Molly Hooper" Molly smiled "I am here to pick up my son Henry"

The girl sighed, finally looking up at the woman in front of her. "Henry Hooper? He's been picked up already"

Molly's heart began to beat rapidly in her chest. Her mouth went dry, and she only managed to croak out "What?"

"A man" the girl began, pulling the registry towards her "A Dr John Watson picked him up about half an hour ago"

Molly relaxed instantly. John was the only other person registered to sign Henry out of the day care facility. "Oh, well, unusual. Maybe he just got his days mixed up. Thank you"

Exiting the building, she dialled John's number. "'lo?"

"John, Hi" Molly began, and then took a deep breath, still trying to steel her nerves. Blind panic had almost taken her over when she had been told that Henry was gone "Listen, I thought we spoke about you warning me if you were going to pick up Henry"

There was an awkward pause as she waited for his apology. All she got in return was "Molly, what are you talking about?"

"I came to pick up Henry. They said that you signed him out already" she replied, keeping her tone casual even though her heartbeat had picked up again. "I mean, thank you but you need to tell me that…"

"Molly, Stop!" John practically barked, cutting her off mid-sentence. It got Molly's attention. "I've been at the clinic all day. I just saw my last patient. I didn't pick up Henry"

A thousand thoughts hit her at once. The main on being that if John didn't have Henry, who the hell did.


	3. Chapter 3

Burning Hearts

A/N: I had a quick name change, after posting as 'Burnt Hearts' I noticed that someone, and hour earlier it seemed, had snagged the same name. I didn't want to have the same name, as that person had gotten to it first, so I changed it to 'Burning Hearts'. I hope the feelings in this chapter are realistic. I found it hard to write. Oh, and a huge thanks to everyone who has reviewed so far. A million life points to whoever can work out what the J in Henry J Hooper stands for

Her stomach dropped. Her blood ran cold and Molly found herself feeling faint and dizzy. She stumbled, leaning heavily against the hood of her car. John didn't have Henry and no one else had the authority to sign him out. Something terrible had happened, she could just feel it.

"Molly" the voice at the end of the phone in her hand was still speaking, and Molly raised it to her ear once again to hear what her friend was saying. "I am leaving the clinic now; I am coming straight to you by cab. Wait there for me. We'll get to the bottom of this. Maybe it's all a mix up"

Molly tuned out the reassurance in her ear. John was doing his nervous chattering that he had developed over the last few years. Sometimes it was comforting to hear him yabbering on in the background, other times, like now, she found it impossibly frustrating. Talk wasn't finding Henry, it was wasting time. Molly took a deep breath, trying not to be sick in the parking lot of the day care centre. She had no idea what to do next. John, it seemed, was as clueless as she was.

John was again saying he would only be a few minutes away. Molly merely added "John, call Greg"

Greg would know what to do. Not only was he a detective, but he was also a father.

John made an affirmative sound, and then hung up the phone. Molly held her phone for a minute, listening to the dial tone as she considered her next move. Should she call anyone else? Mrs Hudson was practically a grandmother to the boy, she would want to know. Could Mycroft help?

No, she decided, finally ending the call. It was best to find out what was going on before she alarmed anyone else. Worrying everyone over this would just stress her out even more.

Molly stormed back into the day care centre. The teen at the front desk raised an eyebrow at her. From somewhere deep inside herself, Molly pulled all the bravery and adrenaline that she had, and instead of breaking down crying on the front counter as she wished to, she crossed her arms against her chest and glared.

"My son" Molly began, her voice raised an octave towards hysterical despite herself. "Who picked him up?"

"Dr Watson" the girl replied, tapping her nail on the registry where it had been signed. Molly looked at the upside down writing of the signature, and even from her distance and angle, she could tell that it was not John's handwriting.

"That's funny" Molly growled, snatching the registry for closer inspection. She was right. The handwriting that had signed 'J.H. Watson' was much neater, cleaner and loopier then the writing of the her friend (it was often a joke between them that he sure did have the writing of a physician, as it was impossible to read at most times.) Molly looked up, glaring at the child behind the counter again "Because I just called Dr Watson, and he doesn't have Henry. So I will ask you again. Who picked up my son?"

At the sound of raised voices, the administrator of the child care centre made her way over to them, a soft smile on her face. Molly had had numerous conversations with Samantha, the administrator of the centre over the last few months, both about Henry and in a social context, so her face softened a little at the sight of her friend. "Miss Hooper, what seems to be the problem?"

"This woman has released my son, Henry, to a stranger!" Molly replied. Samantha looked between the girl in her employ and Molly, a shocked, disbelieving look on her face, before pulling the registry towards her.

"I know what it says" Molly began, cutting Samantha's next argument short. "I just called john, Sam. He doesn't have Henry"

Samantha raised her hand to her mouth and quickly ushered Molly into her office. Samantha stayed just outside the door for a moment, barking orders at a few of the workers. One was told to check every child to ensure it wasn't a mix up and that Henry wasn't still in the centre somewhere, another was asked to access the security camera that was trained on the front door, pinpointing the person who had picked up Henry and a third order was given to bring a pot of strong tea to the office.

"Molly" Sam began. Molly held up her hand to stop the apology that was on the woman's lips. She didn't want to hear that the woman was sorry they had lost her son. She just wanted them to find him.

Molly pulled out her phone and checked it, the picture of Henry smiling back at her, birthday cake on his face almost made her cry. She had gotten off of the phone with John only five minutes earlier, so he would still be a while. Molly wanted him here with her, needed him there to support her.

"This has never happened before" Sam mumbled, more to herself then to Molly. For some reason, the simple admission made Molly angry. The first time the centre had lost a child, and it was hers. "I'll call the police"

"Detective inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard is on his way" Molly replied. Sam recoiled, but nodded. She knew that Molly was friends with police officers. Of course Molly would have contacted them immediately.

The room was awkwardly silent except for the occasional knock on the door. First, a tray of tea was delivered, that Molly refused and the second was a confirmation of Molly's worst fear. Henry was not in the centre at all. Samantha kept shifting things around the table and not meeting Molly's eyes. Molly hardly noticed, as she was scrolling through her phone, looking at all the photos of her little boy.

She was in agony. It was her job, as a mother, to look after her son and now he was missing. From the moment he was born he had become her entire world, and now her world had been pulled out from under her. Her little boy, her baby, was out of her reach. Heart breaking each time she looked at the pictures, Molly held back tears. She wasn't going to cry, not until she was at home, alone, and could scream out the pain that was gripping every inch of her. Where was he? Was he scared? Was he alone? Who had him and most importantly, what were they doing to him?

Just as she flicked off a picture of Henry sitting in Mycroft's lap (it was one of her favourites, as Henry, who had been teething at the time and putting everything in his mouth was gumming Mycroft's umbrella handle sloppily. The look on Mycroft's face priceless) her phone began to buzz. The screen went blank, and the words 'blocked number' flashed upon it. Taking a deep breath, she hit send.

"Well, well, well…" the haunting voice on the other end of the line seemed hollow, but Molly recognised it instantly. "If it isn't Sir Boast-a-lot's lovely princess"

"Jim" she croaked. Of course it was him.

"Hello Molly. It's been a while" Jim replied airily "and you have been busy for the last few years, haven't you my dear. Raising the young prince of the house of Holmes all alone. Oh don't you worry, I don't plan on hurting him. "

Sherlock Holmes stood before the mirror, taking in his appearance as he buttoned his cuff on his left wrist. The bruise on his cheek from his last fight was healing nicely, and that was all he cared about. He reached out and took a piece of paper from where he had wedged it in the corner of his mirror, and struck a name off of the list it held. One more of Moriarty's network in jail. The list of men he was still in search of was getting smaller and smaller by the day.

There was just one more in his current location that he had to track, and then he could head back towards London. More than anything he was looking forward to returning to London. Looking B forward to going home to Baker st. He wanted to see Mrs Hudson, to taste her delicious cooking and have her tell him that she was not his house keeper (usually only hours after she had been in 221B cleaning up the place.) He wanted to see Lestrade and talk cases, insulting that idiot Anderson and that bitch Donovan. Even more surprisingly, he wanted to speak face to face with his brother again.

Sherlock missed everyone, but more and more he missed his best friend. Every day he missed John. A man who would drop everything to follow him into danger. A man who many times had dropped everything and put his life at risk. The man who Sherlock had risked his life for. Had faked his death for. He was anticipating a broken nose when he finally did come back from the dead. But it would be worth it, to have his best friend back. He wanted to sit and drink tea with the doctor, talk about life. He would even refrain from saying that it was boring. Anything to have a little piece of normalcy back.

Returning to London meant more than just returning to John. The other side of the mirror held the only other link to his previous life that he held dear. Pulling it from where it was wedged, Sherlock stared down at the photograph, printed cheaply on white paper from his email account. Staring back at him were the bright blue eyes and jovial smirk of an infant.

His infant. His infant son. Henry.

Not really familiar with sentiment, Sherlock didn't know how to describe the feeling he got in the pit of his stomach as he looked at the picture of the young boy. He assumed it was love but with nothing to compare it too, he was unsure. All he knew was that the young man made him feel as though whatever he was fighting for was worth it. More than his friends had ever made him feel.

He had never met his son. Mycroft had told him about Henry in a text message. Some trivial text about producing an heir to the throne. Sherlock, confused as he had ever been, had actually replied with a phone call, asking his older brother what on earth he was rabbling on about. Mycroft had then emailed him a picture. The picture. Henry J Hooper. Son of Molly Anne Hooper and Sherlock Jameson Holmes. Mycroft had also asked for confirmation that Henry was his.

You didn't have to be a genius to see the resemblance. The question of whether or not the child was actually his never crossed his mind, especially after the photographic evidence. He had spent one night with her boy's mother, in an intimate sense, that was, and 10 months later had received the email from his brother, informing him of the young man's existence. Blue eyes, brown curly hair and that smirk. Of course he was Sherlock's.

Sherlock unfolded the other half of the paper, revealing the other person in the original photograph. Molly smiled down at their son. Sherlock had never seen someone look as beautiful as that woman, trapped for all eternity in that photograph. It had been taken while they were both still in hospital, and while Molly had looked pale and tired, she looked happy and content. Henry was asleep against her chest where she cradled him. Part of Sherlock wished he was in the photograph too.

Sherlock didn't really know how to love, but he was glad he had given Molly something to share her love with. If he was to care for a woman in the sense of the word, he knew it would be Molly. He had known it from the moment her misspoken words of "you can have me" had left her mouth. He cared for her in a way that he couldn't explain. Opening up to her the night after the fall had been the hardest thing he had ever done, but part of him was glad it had happened.

Love was still a disadvantage. A chemical defect. He pushed thoughts of Molly and Henry Hooper out of his mind often. He didn't have time for them. He was on a case. That was why, even though she knew he was alive, he had never made contact with them. Destroying Moriarty's network was way more important than them.

Sherlock Holmes didn't consider himself a father, but the photograph was a reminder of the reason why he was fighting. John, Mrs Hudson, Greg, Molly, Mycroft and now Henry. These were the reasons he had to stop the network.

A tap on his door preceded the entry of his travel companion by a mere split second. The woman entered and stood behind him, her face clear to him in the reflection in the mirror.

"You didn't come to me last night?"

Sherlock sighed and folded the photograph again, hiding Molly from view. "Have I ever come to you Miss Adler?"

Irene wrapped an arm around Sherlock's waist from behind, holding herself to his back. "There is a first time for everything"

"We've discussed this" Sherlock replied, prying her hand from around his waist. "I contacted you for help as you can easily infiltrate the network. Nothing more, nothing less."

"Come now Sherlock" Irene laughed, stepping around to stand in front of him. Sherlock sighed, placed his hands on her shoulders and moved her a step away from him.

"This is a business arrangement"

"I have numerous business arrangements. All of them are… mutually beneficial" Irene replied.

"There is nothing you can offer me that I would find beneficial" he muttered. "Please, stop throwing yourself at me; it is beginning to become embarrassing"

"Embarrassing displays of affection" Irene smiled, reaching for the picture of Henry from his mirror and unfolding it, holding the picture of Molly up for Sherlock's inspection. "I thought that was what you liked in a woman, Dr Hooper did nothing but embarrassingly throw herself at you for years, and you fathered a bastard with her."

Sherlock grabbed Irene by the collar, pulling her close to him, snarling in her face. "Never speak badly of my son again, understand."

Irene, caught somewhere between fear and arousal, managed to choke out "Why Sherlock, you do care about something"

Sherlock released her and ripped the photograph of Henry and Molly out of Irene's grasp. He smoothed it before placing it in the suitcase that lay open by the window. "Get out"

"Come now Sherlock…" Irene began

"Get out" he snapped, pointing absently at the door. "I am going to the mind palace; I don't wish to be disturbed"

Irene huffed, once again hurt that she had not gotten her own way, and exited his room.

"Say that again?" Lestrade asked, pacing the length of Samantha's office. Molly sat; her hand wrapped in John's, and took a breath and repeated the information that she had told the others at least twice since their arrival.

"It's Moriarty" she began.

"But Moriarty is dead" Greg replied, stopping mid-stride. Molly rolled her eyes a little. Greg could be so trusting. If being around the likes of Sherlock and Moriarty had taught her anything over the last few years, it was that you couldn't trust anything, not even your own eyes. "I mean, he died that day that Sherlock did."

John's intake of breath was audible. Molly also took a breath "Obviously not"

"You did the autopsy though, didn't you?" Lestrade asked, looking at Molly. Molly shook her head.

"I was a little busy that day" Molly replied calmly. "I was in charge of the consulting detective, not the consulting criminal"

John couldn't look at Molly then. He had known she had done the autopsy on their friend, but he had never made the connection in relation to Henry. His date of conception would have been close to the fall. Maybe even the evening before the fall itself. John had never made the connection that Molly had done the post mortem on not only the man she loved, but the last man she had been intimate with. Molly had technically been pregnant with Sherlock's baby at that point, and she had been forced to do his autopsy. John felt sick. Poor Molly.

But Molly couldn't help but flash back to that day. The day that they had wheeled Sherlock into her lab. She had injected him with the chemical compound to wake him up, and as she waited, had wiped the dried blood off of his face. His eyes had fluttered open slowly. Their plan had worked a treat. Threatening her job had been the hardest part, signing the autopsy report that stated Sherlock Holmes was in fact dead and gone. He hid at her apartment that night, sharing their thoughts, feelings and bodies. That had been the night they had conceived Henry.

Lestrade nodded before them, dragging them both back to the present. "Who did do the autopsy then?"

"I don't know" Molly shrugged, calmer then she felt "Mike maybe?"

"What does it matter" John snapped, and Greg nodded.

"Right" he muttered by way of apology "What did Moriarty say next?"

"That he wouldn't hurt Henry"

"Well, that's good" Greg smiled at the others, cutting off Molly mid conversation.

Molly recovered, and knew the next part would be hard for her companions to hear. "He wouldn't hurt Henry, If we gave him Sherlock"


	4. Chapter 4

Burning Hearts

Chapter Four

"But Sherlock is dead"

Molly took a deep breath to steady her and calm her nerves, closed her eyes, and squeezed John's hands softly. "Get Mycroft in here"

"Sherlock is dead" Lestrade repeated, stronger than he had the first time. Molly dared not look at John. In all the ways that she had pictured John finding out that his best friend was still alive, this was not one of them. In her mind it had been a charming reunion between the two men, not what she knew she was about to do.

"Get Mycroft in here"

Lestrade didn't take well to being given orders. Usually he was the one doing the ordering, but there was something in Molly's tone that made him think that she could be deadly if he did not do as she commanded.

As he dialled the number, he briefly wondered why he hadn't thought of calling Mycroft in himself. Mycroft was the most powerful man he knew. That fact, combined with the knowledge that he loved poor Henry so intensely meant that he was probably a powerful ally. Not that it would really help in their situation. A mad man wanted Sherlock. Dead, buried and in the ground Sherlock.

The next fifteen minutes were awkward, no one said anything. After Greg had hung up from Mycroft, Molly had nodded, mainly to herself. She was taking time to convince herself that what she was about to do was her only avenue. That there was no other way to get around this. Jim wanted Sherlock in exchange for Henry. Molly would do all she could to give Jim what he wanted.

She wondered if that made her a bad person. Sherlock, the man she had protected, the father of her son, the man that she loved with all of herself even to this very day, and she was going to put him in danger by bringing him back to the country and forcing him into a confrontation. She justified it to herself simply: Sherlock was a grown man who would probably enjoy the challenge. Henry was just a child. He was helpless.

Either way, she was working hard not to look at John.

John sat in awe of his friend, unsure of how to best support her. He had no idea what it was like to lose a son, the type of hysteria that could take over your life, but he was in the situation that he was missing a god-son. He had no idea what Molly was going through, where she was getting all this strength from. This was a woman who had once called her in tears because Toby had gotten out (granted, she had been pregnant with Henry at the time and more than likely hormonal). John felt so helpless. There was nothing he could do. Not since that day in front of St. Bart's had he felt so small and useless. Nothing anyone could do. They would have to fight with Moriarty themselves, because Sherlock was gone.

It was a surprise to all when less than twenty minutes later Mycroft Holmes entered the child care centre, his umbrella slung over his hand as always. He looked disgruntled, like he had more important things to be doing with his afternoon.

"What is this emergency, Dr Hooper?"

Molly glanced at Greg. Hadn't he informed Mycroft. Thinking back over the conversation she had heard, she realised that Greg had only referred to it as an emergency. For Mycroft to come when he didn't even know the details spoke volumes to her, and Molly found herself thankful that her son had such an attentive uncle. She had made the right decision calling him in after all.

Molly stood, her height still shorter then Mycroft, but not by enough to make her look weak. "Moriarty has Henry"

Mycroft recoiled as though he had been slapped. Three simple words out of Molly's mouth, and it felt like his world was crashing down around him. "What does he want? Any price, I will pay it to get my nephew back."

"Sherlock" was all she said. This time Mycroft took an actual step away from the woman.

"Sherlock" he repeated, bewildered. "He wants Sherlock?"

"it's Moriarty" Molly replied clearly. "Of course he wants Sherlock"

John and Greg looked at each other through the exchange, unsure of what to say or even what to think. John felt as though he was going mad. Saying Moriarty wanted Sherlock was all well and good, but unless their plan was to lead the consulting criminal to his grave, there was nothing that could be done. It seemed like he was the only one who remembered that.

Mycroft shifted his umbrella and cleared his throat nervously. "Impossible"

It was obvious that Molly and Mycroft had forgotten that Greg and John were even in the room. They spoke to each other in something akin to a code, because they understood the conversation but the others didn't. Greg was following as closely as he could, but still coming up blank.

"Not impossible, this is my son"

Mycroft straightened. "And my nephew"

Molly laughed bitterly "I win. Get him here, Mycroft"

It was as though all the air had been sucked out of the room. That was the first time in almost two years that either Molly or Mycroft had made reference to each other the secret they were holding for Sherlock.

"Impossible" Mycroft repeated. But this time, he added something that made John cry out in agony. "He's deep undercover. He can't leave the case now"

At his cry, Molly looked over her shoulder. The doctor had buried his head in his hands and was rocking gently. No, this definitely was not how she had pictured her friend finding out.

"My son, his son, is in danger." Molly began, turning back to Mycroft. "He may pretend to be a heartless bastard, but you know as well as I do that this is exactly the type of thing he would come back for. Get him here now!"

"Molly" Mycroft began.

And that's when Molly snapped. She had been calm all day. Calmer than anyone else in her situation would have been. It seemed no one was listening to her. A dangerous, callous, criminal had Henry. Why was Mycroft not co-operating? She straightened, glared at him and whispered. "Do not patronise me, Mycroft Mackenzie Holmes. Get. Sherlock. Here. NOW!'

Ignoring the shocked faces of the other two inhabitants of the room, Mycroft rubbed his hand across his face. "He is in Australia. It will take at least 24 hours…"

"Then call him now. By this time tomorrow, I expect him on my doorstep."

"Molly" Mycroft began a hint of warning in his tone. He was unsure of what he was warning her against, but the tone was there, regardless.

"he's off fighting the network" Molly began, explaining it to Mycroft as though she was explaining the facts to a little kid. Part of her wanted to smirk. She was about to explain it to Mycroft the same way Sherlock had taken explaining things to Anderson. "But does he even know the head is still alive. Call him, right now. Moriarty is still alive. That is far more important than him tracking down the henchmen"

Mycroft sighed and pulled his phone from his pocket. Molly, knowing she had won, then turned away from the man who was the government. That was when her eyes locked on John's.

His hands where not on his face anymore. They were under his thighs. He was leaning forward, staring intently at the ground. He looked like a child who had been told off for doing the wrong thing. He was pale and he looked like he was going to be sick.

Molly sat beside him and placed a hand tentatively on his back. "Sherlock is... still? How?"

John stood, shrugging off Molly and began pacing the track that only a half hour before had been occupied by Greg. Lestrade himself was leaning, shocked, against the desk in the office. Sherlock was alive. None of this was making any sense.

"Why?" was all John said.

"For your safety" even the noblest excuse seemed ridiculously feeble coming out of her mouth at that moment. "Both of yours. And Mrs Hudson's."

"You knew? You knew he was alive" John asked. "how long have you known?"

Dropping her gaze, she whispered "I helped him"

She had always though her actions that day had been in the best interest of everyone. Helping him fake his death, protecting the friends she held dear. The look that john shot her, however, made her second guess that.

John stood, wanting nothing more than to storm out of the small office. Sherlock was still alive. He was filled with rage. Molly had known all along. She had let him go through all that mourning, all of that depression, for nothing. All that time, Sherlock had been alive on the other side of the world?

But he couldn't. He had to focus on the bigger picture. Being angry at her for Sherlock's mistake would not get Henry back. Henry was priority number one. If Molly had kept it all a secret, there was obviously a reason. A bullshit reason, he decided immediately, but a reason all the same.

Besides, he was sure he would see Sherlock again very soon, and suddenly his fist was positively itching to punch his friend.

He paused and looked at Molly, a look that clearly said 'this discussion is not over.'

"I suggest you all go home and get some sleep" Mycroft said as he re-entered the small office. In all of the emotional upheaval, they had not really realised that he had left. "My brother is on his way home"

A/N: I just want to put forward an apology. I am not in love with this chapter. I can't describe what I am feeling at writers block, as I know exactly where I want this story to go, but at the same time, this chapter just didn't flow. Sorry.


	5. Chapter 5

Burning Hearts

Chapter Five

John Watson sat, his back against Henry Hooper's or Holmes' (or Henry Holmes-Hooper, as Greg referred to him in passing) bedroom door. For some strange reason, he found himself considering minutes.

Minutes were all it took to change a world completely.

It had taken less than a minute for him to be shot. One moment, he had been walking with friends, chatting. Most people say they don't remember what it was that they had been talking about when something life changing happens. John was the opposite. He had being talking about nothing of importance to his army buddies, but he remembered every word of it. Discussion centred around Annie, a busty new nurse who had come to camp only the week previous, and debate over whether three-continents-Watson was going to 'show her around camp'. Less than a minute later, it had all changed. Gunfire, shooting, searing pain in his shoulder, and someone, he didn't know who, yelling "Watson!" 30 seconds after that he had been lying there, telling his friends what to do (only his luck would see him as the only medic in the small group) and another 30 seconds passed before he lost consciousness.

In less than a minute that day, his world had changed.

It had taken Sherlock less than a minute to deduce him the first time they had met, in the morgue at barts. Less then 60 seconds. His life had changed with the simple question "Afghanistan or Iraq". 30 seconds after that, he was running though the list of subtle observations that had led him to that conclusion, and another 30 seconds had passed before he left with the words "the address is 221B Baker st"

In less than a minute that day, his world had changed.

It had taken less than a minute to have that world ripped out from under him. Standing on the street, staring at the rooftop, listening to his best friend tell him; lie to him, about being a genius. 30 seconds after that – "Goodbye John" and another saw Sherlock Holmes, bloody in a heap on the ground outside of the hospital.

In less than a minute that day, his world changed.

Good things happened in less than a minute too, he realised. Walking down the hall with Molly whilst she was pregnant, passing a beautiful woman who made him do a double take. The day he met Mary, his life had changed in a minute. He thought he would never see her again after merely passing her in the hall. But as he sat, watching as the doctor rubbed ultrasound gel on Molly's stomach; the angel entered the room again. This time in hospital scrubs. 30 seconds later she was introduced as Mary, a nurse who specialised in Pre-natal work. He had watched her as she spoke to Molly. Smiling and laughing as Molly made some joke about not caring about fashion when you are the size of a beach ball. 30 seconds after the introduction, John knew he was in love.

In less than a minute that day, his world changed.

In less than a minute, his world had changed today. Twice, really. As there had been two minutes. The first started with an accusation, and ended with the blind panic of knowing that Henry, his god-son was missing. The second being the minute that followed Mycroft's enterance into the room. 30 seconds later being informed that Sherlock was still alive, and another 30 seconds before learning that Molly had known about it all along. John was still debating if that was a good minute in his life, or a bad one.

It had taken more than a minute to get home from the day care that night. Anthea, Mycroft's lady-servant, had been present the whole time and had driven them back to Molly's flat in her car. John had sat in the front, Molly in the back, curled up beside Henry's car seat, hugging it as though it was the boy himself.

No one spoke. When they reached Molly's, she exited the car quickly. Anthea handed John the keys, and turned to leave. She took a step, turning back to John. "I hope that they find young Henry" she whispered and John was honestly floored by her sincerity.

John nodded, and went upstairs.

Molly had left the door open for him. He stepped inside, not sure where she was in the large flat. He couldn't see her, but after a few seconds he realised that he could hear her.

Screaming sobs came from Henry's bedroom. John was honestly relieved. Molly was finally showing emotion. She had been so put together through the ordeal so far. Often her voice had given way to panic, but she had mainly been level headed and had not cried at all at the knowledge that her son was missing.

Not showing emotion, John thought bitterly, Sherlock would be so proud.

But here he was, listening to the woman on the other side of the door cry. After a while the sobbing subsided, but he could still hear her distress through the door. He couldn't take it anymore.

Boiling the kettle seemed like the obvious thing to do. It was something his Nan used to always say. "Everything looks better after a spot of tea"

"Not this time Nan" he sighed, making the first mug to the way he knew Molly took it. He left it on the floor just outside Henry's door, as he was not sure how she would take to being interrupted.

He made his own tea and moved to the couch in Molly's living room. He had every intention of staying there the night. There was nothing that was going to make him leave her side in this situation. Nothing, except… "Oh crap"

He pulled his phone out of his pocket. 4 missed calls and a text. All from Mary. John had fallen into the terrible habit of forgetting to take his phone off silent after he left work. Mary was always up him for it, as it often meant that he didn't get her texts about picking things up on the way home from work until after he had returned to the flat.

He hit her number and waited for her to answer.

"Let me guess" she began instead of saying hello. Luckily, he could hear the tone in her voice already and knew that she wasn't angry. "Greg had gotten himself into a spot of bother with a lady friend and convinced you to go down to The Sargent for a pint or three before coming home for dinner?"

John paused. The dinner party. He had forgotten.

When he didn't answer right away, Mary grew anxious. "Is everything alright love?"

"No" he admitted, and then he broke down as well, tearing up.

"John! Talk to me honey, what's wrong?" panic was rising in her voice. "Are you ok?"

"I am fine" he sniffled. "Henry's been kidnapped"

The line went silent. John was just about to ask if she was still there when the sob of "Poor Molly" came over the line.

"Don't worry, I am with her. I am not leaving her side tonight." John replied, and Mary sighed in relief. "We'll have to cancel dinner love"

"Oh, forget dinner" she whispered. "I am coming over"

John wanted to tell her not to, but the selfish side of him won. He needed Mary to be there. She was his rock. She would know what to do to help support Molly, and even if she didn't, they could fumble through it together. He didn't want to be alone. He wanted to hold her and be reminded that there was good in the world.

"Will you" he hesitated, wondering how the best way to phrase his next request would be. "Will you pack me an overnight bag? Maybe with a few days' worth of clothes in it?"

"Of course" she replied, and he could hear her moving around Baker st, throwing things into a bag already. It seemed that she had pre-empted his question.

"I love you Mary"

The obvious movement on the other end of the line stopped as Mary replied "I love you too John" before hanging up the phone.

John sat back on the couch, drinking in the living room in the light of the small lamp. The evidence of a toddler was obvious. The two, large built in bookshelves had the two bottom shelved dedicated to Henry. His books and toys were stuffed in there haphazardly (Molly had been teaching him to put away his things when he was finished with them. A skill the boy's father had never really ever mastered.) The higher shelves where filled with Molly's books, but also had pictures all over them, chronicling Henry's aging process.

John lifted down his favourite. A picture from Henry's first birthday. They all stood, in this very living room. Mrs Hudson, Molly, Mary, Mycroft, Greg and himself. He was actually in the centre of the group, holding Henry in his arms. They had been standing for a while, waiting for the timer to go off and take the photograph. It was one of those classic sitcom scenarios, as the picture showed Greg half walking towards the camera to check if it was even working. John had no idea why Molly insisted on printing that photo off, as there had been so many more ideal shots from that day.

As he placed it back, he felt as though someone had kicked him in the guts. Henry was with Moriarty. For a second there, he had forgotten.

The door to Henry's room opened, and Molly ran out of there, faster than John could register.

"Molly?" he called down the hall. He could hear her in the bathroom, retching. It seemed the young mother had made herself sick from crying.

John dampened a washcloth and sat on the floor behind her, holding her long ponytail behind her and placing the damp cloth on the back of her neck. He tried to think of something encouraging to say, but all he could think of was "Let it all out"

Moving to dab the cloth on her forehead, he paused when she grabbed his wrist. Their eyes met. "Thankyou"

John shook his head. Even in the darkest of hours, Molly was so considerate of others. He shrugged, and wiped her face. A minute or so later, she took the cloth and wiped her mouth with it, turning to lean against the bathtub. John positioned himself beside her.

"We were all so stupid, thinking we were safe because Jim was dead"

"Hey now" he whispered, wrapping an arm around her and pulling her into his side, resting her head on his shoulder.

"I mean, I believed it, and I was one of the people who knew for a fact that everything was not as it seemed." Molly muttered. "I believed Moriarty was dead"

"We all did" John whispered into her hair. "We all did Molly."

"I relaxed. I was in a false state of security, this whole time. The last three years. I wasn't taking my son's safety seriously. I am a bad mother"

"Stop it" he said strongly, whipping around to hold her by the shoulders and look directly at her. "You couldn't have known this would happen. We all thought he was dead. You do take his safety seriously, you are an excellent mother. Stop thinking this is all your fault"

"But even if it wasn't Jim" Molly began "Why didn't I think that there would be at least one person out there who wouldn't want to hurt Sherlock's son?"

"The world has forgotten about Sherlock Holmes Molly" John replied carefully. He and Molly never really spoke about Sherlock. At first they had not discussed him as they had not wanted to unintentionally hurt one another, and then after that they realised that they had so much in common that they could be friends without the 'glue' of the consulting detective. "It has been two and a half years since his name has appeared in the papers. He convinced the world that he was dead"

John's voice hitched on the word dead, and Molly held him a little tighter. "But…"

"But nothing" John whispered. "I doubt anyone outside of this group even made the connection between Sherlock and Henry"

They sat together for a few minutes, before something struck him as worth asking "Molly, you said… you said Sherlock did it for our safety. Mine and Greg's, and Mrs Hudson's… but what about your safety?"

"Mine too, I guess, he just never admitted it to me" Molly replied "I mean, I've come to the conclusion that he did care about me, since it was that evening we… well, he cared about my safety."

John couldn't help but smirk a little at the realisation of where that sentence could have ended. Molly tightened her grip around his middle and buried her head into his chest. "Are you angry?"

"Yep" John replied without hesitation. "At a lot of things actually. But you are not one of them"

She let out a breath that she hadn't even realised she was holding. "It's going to be weird, having him back. He'll waltz in here and pick up as though the last two and a bit years never happened"

"I know"

"He won't have realised how much has changed. And I guess we won't really have realised the way somethings have stayed exactly the same"

He held her, not really knowing how to reply. John was angry enough with Sherlock to hope that he wouldn't fall right back into the same routines with the man, but he also knew better then to think it was really his decision. Not when Sherlock Holmes was involved.

"We'll get him back Molly" was all John could say after a few minutes silence.

And he wasn't sure if he meant Henry, or Sherlock.

A/N: This chapter flowed easier for me. Thanks to all of the kind and encouraging messages. Next chapter sees the return on everyone's favourite Consulting detective.


	6. Chapter 6

**Burning Hearts**

**Chapter Six**

When Mary entered the flat using her spare key, it was eerily silent.

A quick scan of the kitchen and living room, the first two rooms that you saw in the large apartment suggested that they were elsewhere. Dropping her things on the counter, she explored.

She found them on the floor in the bathroom. John, leaning against the bathtub awkwardly, his legs stretched out in front of him, his arm wrapped protectively around Molly's shoulder. Molly, eyes closed, possibly sleeping, was lying against his chest.

'Hi' John mouthed.

Mary came into the room, reaching out with both of her hands. One stroked Molly's hair gently, whilst the other caressed John from forehead to chin. "Hi"

Molly stirred, she had not been sleeping as Mary had previously thought, and looked at her friend. Detaching herself from John quickly, she launched herself at Mary, wrapping her arms around the other woman's neck with such intensity that they fell backwards. John 'oofed' as Molly landed on his ankle.

Nothing was said between the two women, and John knew nothing would have to be. Mary and Molly had been friends for as long as John and Mary had been dating. It had been Molly who had gotten them together. It was Mary who was the nurse present with the midwife on the day that Henry was born. Mary and Molly were best friends, and there was something in the female companionship that he would never be able to duplicate.

John managed to manoeuvre around his ladies without disturbing them and moved down the hallway to the kitchen. On the table were two overnight bags (one of Mary's things, the other of John's). He opened it and looked inside. His woman was amazing; she had remembered everything, even down to his razor.

Beside the bags were two Tupperware containers. The bigger one, he noticed, held a lasagne, obviously the main course of the cancelled dinner party, and the second container held salad. It was only then he realised he had not eaten since lunch and he was starving. His woman really did think of everything.

Mary entered the kitchen soon after to find John sitting that the table, staring into space. He started as she began talking "I've run her a bath. Maybe if she relaxes a little, she'll be able to sleep?"

John sighed at the question in her tone and reached for Mary's hand. How could two professional caretakers have no clue how to help their friend? He pulled her closer and rested his head on her abdomen. He closed his eyes as she ran her hand through his hair. Suddenly, his word had stopped spinning. He felt grounded and calm.

He didn't know how long they stood there in the comfort of the others embrace. John knew Mary was burning with questions. All she knew so far was that Henry had been kidnapped. There was so much she needed to be filled in on.

Just as he was about to tell her, however, she stepped away and began busying herself in the kitchen, finding plates and dishing up the food. "I don't know what to do" she admitted. "My mother, well, when she stresses out she cooks. I always thought it was funny, but at the moment, I have the strongest compulsion to make a cake… or three"

John smiled slightly. He wanted to get up and help, but it wasn't until he had sat down that he realised how tired he was.

Mary plated up three varying sized plates. John's, the biggest. Her own was of a medium size, and the third, for Molly, was small, served on a bread plate. Mary had inferred that her friend wasn't in the mood to eat. She didn't want food to go to waste. As the first meal went into the microwave, Mary placed a large glass of water in front of John and went back to preparing.

"Sherlock is alive" He had meant to tell her delicately, to start with the kidnapping and Moriarty, however that was the first thing out of his mouth.

Mary knew all about Sherlock. John had told her one night early in their relationship. They had sat by the fire, whispering sweet nothings and telling each other their deepest secrets. John had told her everything that he thought about Sherlock. Mary knew who he was; of course, you would have had to have been blind, deaf and dumb to not know the name Sherlock Holmes at that point in time. She had held him as he cried for the last time over the death of his best friend, and had made her a solemn promise "I will not let grief control me any longer"

At his admission that the detective was still alive, she turned, staring at him. "What?"

"Sherlock didn't die that day at St. Barts. He's… he's on his way back to London"

Mary dropped what she was doing and took the two steps to his side so quickly he thought that she had teleported. She dropped to her knees before him, holding his hands in his.

"He faked it. Faked it all" John mumbled bitterly, tears forming in his eyes despite himself. "Molly says that it was for my protection, well, our protection, but…'

"Wait" Mary whispered "Molly said?"

This drug an almost bitter laugh from John "Molly knew he was alive all this time. She helped him die."

Mary didn't know what to say. In the development of her friendship with Molly, they too had spoken about Sherlock. Molly had played the part of the grieving 'widow' (for lack of a better word) amazingly. She had believed every word that Molly had said about her brilliant man's death. To know now that she had been lying was like a slap to the face.

"We don't hate molly for this" John said abruptly. To Mary's ears it sounded like an order, but for some reason, she understood what John meant. "Molly would have done anything for Sherlock. She usually did. He would say jump and she would…" he stopped himself on the poor choice of words.

"We can't even hate Sherlock for this" John added "Not yet anyway. Henry is the focus. One of Sherlock's enemies, his main one I guess, is the one that took Henry. Sherlock will be back here tomorrow to get him back. Once that boy is back safe in Molls' arms, then I will have it out to the death with him. But not a moment before"

Mary stood, running her hand through his hair and kissing him gently on the forehead. "You're a good man, John Watson"

The microwave behind them dinged, and Mary's took Molly's plate out, going to check on her best friend.

The next morning, John rose at 6. It was part of his military training to rise early, but today it all came down to nerves. There was an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach, and he wasn't sure exactly what was causing it. Was it the knowledge that Henry had been away from home for more than 12 hours? Was it the understanding that today the action really happened, as they were about to jump headlong into a fight for Henry's life, or it was possibly that today he was going to come face to face with a man he believed to be dead.

John exited the guest bedroom, trying hard to not wake Mary. She had been up late talking to Molly, soothing the girl and comforting her, and then when she had finally made it to bed, John had been selfish and made her sooth him too.

He really didn't deserve a woman as brilliant as Mary Morstan.

John cracked the door to the master bedroom across the hall. The bed look slept in (or, thrashed in, more accurately) but it was now empty. Molly was awake somewhere in the flat.

However, once he found her, she realised he was wrong about the sleeping thing. Molly sat in the rocking chair by the window in Henry's room, a book open on her lap, in a deep and peaceful slumber. John recognised the instantly as the bedside story Henry insisted on every night. John himself had been forced to read it numerous times to the young lad. Molly had admitted that she didn't even look at the words in the book anymore, as she could recite it from memory.

He gathered the blanket from the side of the cot and placed it over Molly just after he took the book from her hands. Molly snugged down into the blanket, but luckily did not wake.

Whilst making himself a pot of tea, the doorbell rang. Answering it, he was met with at least ten police officers, all carrying equipment. The last through the door was Lestrade.

"What's all this then?" John asked.

"We are setting up headquarters here" Greg explained "In 99% of kidnapping cases, the kidnapper will make contact with the family though a home phone line. This equipment will record the calls and pinpoint where they are coming from. It also does the same for mobiles, if he calls her that way again."

"What if he is in the one per cent that doesn't call?"

"John, he probably has us under surveillance right now. I anticipate that the moment Holmes walks through that door" Lestrade pointed at the door. "That phone" he pointed then at the phone "will ring."

John nodded. He knew better than to question Lestrade. Contrary to Sherlock's insistent prattling, Lestrade knew exactly what he was doing. He was an exemplary police officer.

Lestrade looked to be considering something. "Well, probably ten minutes after he walks in. Moriarty wouldn't want to pass up the dinner theatre of a reunion between you and Holmes"

John noticed, for the second time in two minutes, Greg had referred to Sherlock as Holmes.

"Where's Molls?" Greg asked, glancing down the hallway.

"Asleep" John replied, looking through Molly's cupboards and taking out as many coffee mugs as he could. If this was to be headquarters, then he would have to provide enough coffee for all.

"Good" Lestrade sighed. "it's going to be a long day."

Molly surfaced an hour later, and not long afterwards, Mary came out into the living room too. Molly had showered and looked ready to take on the world, her face a solid battle mask, devoid of emotions once again.

At 11am, the phone rang. Lestrade, who had been briefing Molly about the case, looked around the room. "I doubt that's him" he announced but signalled the officers to activate the machine anyway.

Molly answered the phone with a nervous "hello?"

"Molly Hooper? This is Michael Brampton from The London Observer. Your son has been kidnapped, do you have any comment that we could print in the media?"

She glanced at Lestrade, who gave a slight nod, and Molly hung up on the reporter.

"I am sorry Molly" Lestrade sighed, rubbing his face "Kidnapped children are placed in a public database in the case that they are spotted in public with their kidnappers. I am so sorry"

Molly dismissed him with a wave of her hand. The next three phone calls, all within the next 15 minutes were reporters. Molly hung up on all of them.

When the phone rang, Molly excused herself and disappeared further into the apartment. Greg glanced at John. Someone had to answer the phone.

"Hello?" John began.

"Kitty Riley from the London Daily Post. Any comment on the abduction of Henry Hooper?"

John almost dropped the phone, clicking at Lestrade to get his attention. Kitty Riley, the woman who had printed the Rich Brook stories and claimed that Sherlock was a fake. Lestrade had heard it to, and was now sitting in front of the machines.

"No comment" John replied.

"Please, I am merely trying to help find this poor, unfortunate young man" Kitty simpered. John rolled his eyes. "The more people who know the story, the quicker we will be able to find him"

John gritted his teeth, angry at the assumption that Kitty was 'helping' matters. "No comment"

There was a pause before the voice on the other end of the line whispered "John? John Watson?"

His silence obviously confirmed the matter. On the other end of the phone line, Kitty was grinning as though she had won the lottery.

"Well, in that case" Kitty began. "Any comment on the father of Dr. Hooper's missing child, Dr Watson?"

John felt his fists clench.

"Any truth to the rumours that Henry J Hooper is the illegitimate child of disgraced scientist and criminal mastermind Sherlock Holmes?" Kitty began. "Or the alternative, is the boy your own love child with Dr Hooper"

John was distracted by Lestrade, who had gotten a lock on her location and informed him he could end the call.

"No comment" John hung up, pounding the receiver onto the cradle in front of him. Lestrade barked orders to his crew, telling Donovan to get to Kitty's office immediately and pull her in for questioning. If she was involved, he wanted to know about it yesterday.

John physically calmed when he felt a hand on his lower back, turning to see Mary, holding out a cup of tea to him. He took a sip and spluttered, looking at her, shocked. "You put whiskey in my tea?" he whispered.

Mary nodded. "Just enough to calm you, you won't get drunk"

John kissed her forehead.

Molly only returned to the living room at the sound of the front door opening. Mycroft had entered, Anthea on his tail. As always, Anthea was glued to her mobile phone.

"How are things Greg?" Mycroft said importantly. Greg filled him in. Mary, Molly and John sat on the sofa, watching the government and the law discuss tactics.

Anthea cut them off after only a few minutes "Flight 619 from Sydney international airport to Heathrow has just landed. Sherlock will be the first off of the flight and as arranged, rushed through customs. ETA is 30 minutes from now"

All the air was sucked out of Molly's living room. Molly, sitting between John and Mary, grabbed one of their hands in each of hers. Both clutched hers back, sending as much support at possible to their companions.

No one spoke. All were glued to the clocks. Molly could soon hear her heart beating in her ears. She felt dizzy, she felt sick. The last time she had seen Sherlock, it had been in the half light of predawn. He had shifted in her bed, waking her, but not completely. Molly had watched him with half eyes as he had stood, dressed, and entered the small ensuite bathroom. She continued to doze that morning, her final memory of him being a gentle kiss to her temple and the whispered words "Goodbye Molly". Waking fully hours later, all trace of Sherlock was gone from her house.

And now, in mere minutes, she would be seeing him again. It was all too much.

Mycroft, who had been standing at the window since the announcement that his brother was en route broke the silence. "His taxi just arrived."

Everyone stood almost instantly and took positions around the room subconsciously. John moved to the entrance to the living room, standing with Molly only inches behind him. His hand reached back and his fingers gently found hers. Greg came closer to the centre of the room, standing adjacent to the coffee table. Mycroft stayed nearer to the window, knowing his reunion with his brother was possibly the least important in the room. Mary, suddenly awkward, moved to the far corner, hoping to blend in with the furniture a little.

They heard him before they saw him. Footsteps pounding the stairs. The door then opened with such force that Molly recoiled as though the consulting detective had kicked it. He stood framed in the doorway, glancing around the room, eyes flickering to each of the inhabitants for a brief second before they locked on John's. Molly had been right. Nothing had changed. Tall and lean, he stood in a suit, his large overcoat turned up, his messy, curly fringe to his brow and his scarf securely tied around his neck. It was like he had walked out of their life only yesterday.

John released Molly's hand, taking a hesitant step forwards. Eyes still locked, Sherlock stepped forwards too. "Forgive me?"

The first words out of his friends mouth in almost three years. John found he couldn't deny them and in a completely uncharacteristic move, pulled the taller consulting detective into his arms.

Sherlock froze, but returned the embrace. It went a little longer then intended, and as they broke apart, they clapped each other on the back, trying to make the whole situation manlier. Between them, the knowledge that rage would be unleashed at a later date hung heavily in the air.

Sherlock looked up from John, his eyes snapping to Molly. She stood, watching him intently. Gone was the Molly he once knew, and standing before him was a stronger woman. This was the woman who had asked him what he needed, all that time ago. The woman who had faked his death for him so spectacularly. The woman who made him briefly question his own rejection of sentiment.

He stepped to her. She looked up at him. Molly was not going to be the first to speak. She couldn't. She didn't know what to say. Standing face to face with the father of her son for the first time in years, face to face with the man that she had not so much as received a text from since the moment he left her, she wanted him to be the one to break the silence.

He leant down and pressed a kiss to her cheek, surprising everyone in the room. It was a kiss that had echoed their first, the kiss at the Christmas party all those years ago. "Hello, Molly Hooper."

She wrapped her arms around his middle and pressed her face into his chest. Sherlock was more awkward in this embrace then he had been hugging John, but returned the hug either way.

"Well, well, well" a voice from the doorway broke their silence, and all parties in the room turned to it, abruptly. "What a moving family reunion!"

**A/N: He's back! I hope that this was ok. The reunion was hard to write. I didn't know how to phrase it without it sounding Johnlock-ed. I also wanted to shine a little more light on Mary and John (although I feel that there is a lot more exploration to be done there, as his grief is making him a little selfish at the moment). And Kitty… I've always been fascinated by Kitty. Is she stunningly gullible or working for Moriarty? Who knows? (well, I am sure Gatiss and Moffat know!) I hope we see her again in season three. **


	7. Chapter 7

**Burning Hearts**

**Chapter Seven**

"Well, well, well, what a moving family reunion"

Detective inspector Gregory Lestrade pulled his gun quickly, cocking it and holding it towards the voice's owner. Molly jumped back from Sherlock, taking a step directly behind John, who had stepped in front of her protectively. Mycroft himself had taken a half step towards Mary, a mere acquaintance, before he recognised the voice.

The woman stood in the doorway, pulling the fingers of her glove to remove the item of clothing. Molly peeped around John at the familiar face that she honestly could not place.

Greg still stood, his gun pointed at the intruder.

"Put that down, detective inspector" Irene said seductively, entering the room and moving on to the removal of her second glove. "I'd hate for you to prematurely discharge it."

John looked from the woman to Sherlock. The words "But she's dead" left his mouth.

And suddenly he was doubled over in laughter. Uncontrollable giggles bubbling up from the very pit of his stomach. He gripped his sides, allowing the laughter to spill out of him. It seemed all who were dead were coming back these days. First Moriarty, then Sherlock, of course Adler would be next. Molly, taken aback by her friends behaviour, looked back towards Mary, who shrugged, also lost at her partners mirth. Surprisingly, Sherlock soon started laughing. The low rumble of his laugh made John straighten up, and the two laughed a while longer before finally pulling themselves together.

Greg lowered his gun only slightly "Right, someone tell me what the devil is going on. And make it quick!"

Irene stepped closer to Greg, holding out her hand. "Irene Adler"

Sherlock looked at the detective. "Professionally known as the Woman"

Molly took in the woman who as now standing a little too closely to Lestrade. "I did your autopsy" she blurted when it all clicked into place.

"Yes, that was the…" Irene seemed to be calculating something in her mind "The third time I faked my death." Irene took a step towards Molly "You're cute. I see what you saw in her, Sherlock. The innocence covering rock hard strength. You're…"

John cut off whatever the woman was about to say by wrapping a hand around her wrist and dragging her away from Molly. Molly shot his and thankful glance. John then turned his face to Mycroft, who looked as baffled as he did.

"You are dead. Karachi, remember" John shot at Irene.

Irene smiled, moving her attention to Sherlock, running a hand down his chest. "Sherlock, forever a knight in shining armour"

Sherlock stepped away from Irene, stating to the room. "A business acquaintance."

Lestrade returned his gun to its holster. "A friend Sherlock?"

Sherlock took a step towards Greg "An acquaintance" he muttered again before holding out his hand to shake the detective inspectors. This was their equivalent of a hug, Greg realised.

Sherlock then turned to the man by the window. No one expected it, but the pair reached out for each other simultaneously. They held each other slightly, and then pulled away, neither saying anything.

Sherlock then turned to Mary. Mary cowered a little.

"John" he said firmly. "Aren't you going to introduce me to your fiancé?"

It was just like old times. Mary stood, astonished at the fact that Sherlock had known who she was. John took a step forward. "Mary Morstan, Sherlock Holmes"

Sherlock shook her hand, pumping it once, and then answered the question in her eyes. "The only person in here I did not recognise. Possibly friend of Molly's and I know for a fact that you are, the bond of friendship is evident, not to mention you are present in many photographs around the room. However, the look Molly shot you before suggest that you know John better, wait, not better, differently from the way that Molly knows him. You are obviously in a closer relationship with John then Molly is, suggesting sexual in nature because I am assuming that Molly and John have been strongly attached since my disappearance. You have been hiding in the corner since I got here, suggesting that you did not want to get in the way of this" he gestured to the room "but that you care about John and Molly equally, wanting to know that they are both emotionally ok with my return to their lives. Lives that you helped put back together after my demise. You have your hand in your pocket right now, something I think you have been doing subconsciously for the last 24 hours or so. There is a slight indentation of the seam of your pocket on the top of your hand. That hand only, however, you are hiding something. My guess, a ring, an engagement ring. This is all recent, the engagement I mean, you ad John were going to announce it all to your friends, but a spanner by the name of James Moriarty was thrown into the works. You are conflicted. You want to be happy that you are engaged to a man that you obviously adore. You want to be able to pull your best female friend aside and ask her to be maid of honour, but the timing is wrong. You can't celebrate the happiness you feel while a young boy is missing. Even if the engagement happened on Thursday night, a whole 18 hours before he was taken. You are a little bitter about that. But you know better then to voice that, because you love Henry. So does John. And obviously, so does Molly."

Sherlock ended his deduction by turning to Molly and asking "Why is Mary not Henry's god-mother?"

It had been years since she had heard Sherlock deduce anyone. Her breath was momentarily stolen. Molly shook her head to clear her thoughts. "Mrs Hudson is"

"Of course" Sherlock replied, looking around the room. "Where is Mrs Hudson."

Molly paused, raising a hand to her mouth, in all of the commotion, she had forgotten to inform Mrs Hudson of what was happening. Mary jumped in to save the day "I informed her yesterday. She thought it wise to keep a bit of a distance at the moment. She didn't want to get in the way of the police officers. Her hip was giving her a little trouble too I think. I am keeping her updated with text messages. She is beside herself with worry."

Molly's look of sheer gratitude was interrupted by Sherlock's baffled "Mrs Hudson can text now?"

A phone interrupted them. Greg took his spot behind the machinery with a quick look at john and the words "ten minutes"

John nodded. The prediction had been correct.

"Answer it Molly" Greg encouraged. Sherlock stepped to the phone however, lifted the receiver and hit the button to put it on speaker.

"Jim" he greeted sternly.

"Hello Sherlock" Jim's voice echoed though the apartment. "Did you miss me babe?"

Sherlock smirked. "Everyday"

James Moriarty's laugher flooded the room. Mary, who had never had a run in with the man before, felt faint at the sound of it, and steadied herself on the back of the sofa.

"I believe you have something that belongs to me"

Moriarty stopped laughing. "Belongs to you? No, I have something that belongs to Molly. You there, Molly-mouse, dear?"

Molly, sounding way braver then she felt, responded "Yes"

"And the entourage, I suppose? Hello Detective inspector, John, Mary and, wait, is that Mycroft? And Irene, well, aren't you looking gorgeous."

Greg paused. He was right about the surveillance, it seemed.

"Let me speak to Henry" Molly interrupted.

"No, I'd much rather talk to Sherlock. I want to catch up. I am interested in how he's been. Last I heard he took a pretty serious tumble"

"And you met with the business end of a hand gun. Seems we do have some catching up to do"

Molly slammed her hands down on the table, shocking everyone in the room. "Let me speak to Henry"

"Well, the mouse has become a lioness" Moriarty smiled. "Don't worry, he's alive"

"I want to speak with him. Now!"

There was a tense thirty seconds of silence before Moriarty sighed and handed over the phone. The sound of Henry's voice filled the room. "Mumma?"

"I am here baby, I am here" Molly sobbed, all act of bravado gone now.

"Mumma, I had spaghetti" Henry said, the grin evident in his voice.

"Did you sweetie?"

"Mumma, come get me?" Henry said next, and Molly couldn't stop the avalanche of tears that fell down her cheeks.

"I will sweetie, very soon, very soon" she whispered through her tears. "I am trying to get to you. Really I am, I just don't know where you are right now. I am trying to find you. But you have to be very brave, understand. You have to be very strong and very brave and stay out of trouble"

"I not trouble to Mr Jim, Mumma"

Her blood boiled, and Molly had to hold back the hot bile that was rising in her throat. Hearing her son refer to Moriarty in such a way was like a dagger to the heart. She had been raising Henry to show respect to all, but hearing that respect given to a man that was lower than mud made her feel faint. At that point, Mary vaulted the sofa and reached her friend just as her knees collapsed out from under her. Mary sat on the floor; her friend curled onto her lap, and let Molly cry into her hair.

"He really is no trouble" Jim's voice was back on the line. "Go back to watching TV Henry. Jim needs to talk to your daddy"

"If you hurt him…" Molly threatened weakly.

"I said I am talking to Sherlock now" Jim bellowed. John recoiled at the change in the mad man's voice. He had forgotten the unusual patterns of speech the consulting criminal used. He was, as previously claimed, so changeable. Molly cried harder at the background noise on Moriarty's end of the call. Henry, shocked and scared by the outburst, was crying too.

Sherlock, fists clenched, leant closer to the receiver. "I am listening"

"We start again where we ended this last time." Moriarty told him. St. Bart's roof. "One hour"

The phone clicked off as Moriarty hung up. Sherlock moved to the couch, sat with his hands steepled against his lips, and thought.

No one said anything. The only noise in the room was Molly, sitting in a heap with Mary, still crying softly.

"Do shut up Molly" Sherlock barked. "I am trying to think."

Bit not good? A lot not good more like it.

A blur of movement followed. Molly launched herself at Sherlock. He hadn't anticipated the movement, but was soon pinned to the couch as the smaller woman began pummelling his upper body with tightly balled fists. He looked down at her as she wasted energy, confused as to what was happening. He would admit later, however, that she had gotten a few prize hits in and left him bruised.

John grabbed her arms and tried to detach the flailing woman from the consulting detective even though his first instinct was to let her continue attacking him. He couldn't get a good enough grip on her, however, and it took both Greg and John restraining her to finally get Molly to stop her assault.

Greg had the crying, screaming and at this point swearing pathologist in his arms. She still thrashed against him, but John was before them, holding onto her hands and talking her through it.

Sherlock, the git, just stared, as though the crazy woman who had just used him as a punching bag was an everyday thing. As the screams subsided, what she was actually saying became clearer.

"I hate him John, I hate him"

"I know" he ran and hand over her head as she stopped kicking, sinking back into Greg's firm grip. "We all hate Moriarty"

Greg took that as his cue to carry the calmer woman down the hall and out of the tense situation in the living room. He kicked her bedroom door open gently, and laid her on the bed.

"Greg?" she stopped him as the older detective inspector turned to leave. "I didn't mean that I hate Moriarty"

Greg sat on the edge of the bed, taking her hand in his. "You don't mean that Molly. He is a prat, but you don't hate Sherlock"

No energy left with which to argue, Molly rolled over to face the opposite wall. Greg stood and left to give her some privacy.

He stopped in the hallway when he saw Sherlock, reclined against Henry's closed bedroom door. "Why haven't you told Molly you love her yet?"

**A/N: thanks for all of the continued support guys. I hope that Sherlock's deduction was ok. I tried to picture it in my mind as they show it on TV (close up of pictures of Molly, Mary and John, the visualisation of words ect.) it was really fun to write actually. And at least we know now that Henry is ok. **


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Just a warning that John uses a naughty word in this chapter. Just one. But I thought I'd let you know so it didn't come as a shock. Oh, and hold onto your feels everyone (Especially you MorbidbyDefault)**

**Burning Hearts**

**Chapter 8**

Henry had his face buried in the cushions of the big brown sofa in Mr Jim's living room. He didn't like it. It smelt funny and felt funny on his face. It was smooth, but not comfortable. Not like the sofa at Mummy's. It was made of something funny. Mumma's sofa was made out of normal stuff, like what clothes were made out of. This sofa was made out of the same stuff as Uncle Greg's jacket, it just wasn't as comfortable.

He felt it dip as someone sat beside him. "Please stop crying, little prince"

Henry did what he asked, remembering what his mother had told him about being a good boy and not getting into any trouble. He looked up. Mr Jim was smiling down at him.

"That's better" Jim smiled, patting the young boy on the back. "It's much better when you are not crying"

Henry took a deep breath and bit his lip to stop any more tears. He wanted to keep crying. He had been ok before, but then he had heard his Mumma and wanted to go home. He didn't want to spend any more time with Mr Jim today.

He didn't know if he liked Mr Jim all that much. First he was nice, buying him lollies and letting him eat Spaghetti for dinner, they had even watched a movie about a girl with really long hair who went on an adventure and sang songs. But that was last night. Today he yelled on the phone, and Mumma always says it's not nice to yell. Especially since Mr Jim had yelled at his mum.

"I want mumma" Henry whispered. He wanted to give her a big hug and make sure that she wasn't upset that Mr Jim had yelled at her.

"I know you do" Jim patted him gently on the head. "I know you do. But I can't let you go back yet."

"When?" Henry asked. Jim shrugged.

"That's hard to say" Jim responded slowly. "It will depend on when your daddy comes over to play"

Henry cocked his head to the side, confused. He knew what a daddy was. All of his friends from day care all had daddies (except for his best friend Max, whose daddy had gone to heaven). Henry didn't have a daddy though.

Mumma said always told him there were many different types of family in the world, and she had made sure she put together the best one before he was born. He didn't have a daddy, but he had Mumma who loved him. He also had Uncle John who looked after him, and Aunt Mary who was nice and always let him have an extra biscuit (even sometimes when Mumma said no, but that was a secret between Aunt Mary and Henry). He didn't need a Daddy because he had Mrs Hudson who smelled like flowers and gave really good cuddles and Uncle Greg, who kept bad people away, checking under his bed for bad stuff sometimes. Uncle Mycroft had a really fast car so he was really cool too. He had all them, so he didn't need a daddy.

But Mr Jim kept talking about his daddy. Henry didn't get it.

"Your daddy and I are friends" Moriarty explained. "We used to see each other all of the time. We would play games. Like Cops and Robbers and Hide and Seek. We used to love doing puzzles together as well."

Henry nodded. He liked playing those games too. Max always won Hide and Seek, but Henry was the best at Cops and Robbers, because Uncle Greg told him how to be a real police officer once.

"Then one day we had a disagreement, and even though we were still playing, it wasn't the same anymore" Jim looked down at Henry sadly. "Does that ever happen to you?"

Henry didn't understand the question so he shook his head.

"Of course not" Jim laughed. "Children are so innocent. You don't really fight. Not the way adults do. See, that's what happened, your daddy and I had a fight. A big one. Does your mummy ever give you an ultimatum Henry? Sorry, does she ever make you choose. Like, clean up your toys or you won't get any ice cream"

Henry nodded. Mumma said that sometimes.

"I said something like that to your daddy. It was silly" Jim sighed. "And then we weren't allowed to see each other anymore."

"You could say sorry" Henry suggested weakly. Miss Samantha at day care always says that everything will be better after saying sorry. Maybe that was what Mr Jim and his dad, whoever the man was, needed to do.

"I could" Jim admitted. "But I don't want to. I just want to get back to our game. To pick it all up where we left off."

Sherlock perched himself on the side of Molly's bed. Molly lay still, her eyes open, unblinking. She had her back to him, and he had his back to her. This was one of the weirdest situations he had ever been in.

"I am sorry" he mumbled. He guessed that was a good place to start.

Molly scoffed and pulled the pillow from the other side of the bed over her face.

Sherlock didn't know what to say. What to do. He had realised, at some point that he had stumbled across a social faux pas. Mary had explained, quite cuttingly, he would add, that you do not get in the way of a mother's grief. This was Molly's home, Molly's life and Molly's son and how dare he tell her what to do.

It had gotten to the point that John had almost had to step in and restrain a second woman that day.

Despite the instruction against giving her instructions, he found himself telling her what to do again anyway. "Never hit a man with a closed fist."

Threw the pillow off her head and glared at him.

"I am novice in the realm of sentiment" it was a statement. He meant it not as an apology. Not as an explanation. Not as a reminder. It was just there.

"I've observed" Molly reluctantly responded. Sherlock hid a smirk at her choice in words.

"However, I still obsess over puzzles. Henry is my newest puzzle"

"He is not a puzzle, he is my son"

Molly had sat up and the movement shocked him. He reached out, flinching slightly as he thought she might move to hit him again. His hand hung awkwardly in the air between them.

"Poor choice of words" he admitted. "This situation is the puzzle."

"I must prepare to return to Bart's" Sherlock informed, standing from the bed. He looked down at the woman who was finally looking back at him. "I will not rest until Henry is returned to you"

Footsteps behind him in the hallway shocked him. He looked over his shoulder, watching as Molly pulled her coat on over the top of her shirt. "You think I am not coming with you?"

Sherlock paused. They were now at the end of the hallway closest to the living room. The sound of their approach had alerted the others in the room, all of whom were now watching them intently.

"You're not following me Molly" Sherlock stated with a tone of finality in his voice.

"Give me one reason why not?"

"Because it's not safe, that's why" Lestrade interrupted, stepping into Molly's view. Molly shook her head at him. "Molly, you're not going…"

"Back off Greg" Molly shot, glaring at him. "This is Henry we are talking about. You can't stop me from going."

John knew better then to get in the way. There was nothing he could possibly say that would get through to her, even if he wanted to agree with Greg.

"I can" Sherlock replied. "You're not coming."

"Why not?" she demanded, hands on her hips, challenging him. Where oh where had his shy little Molly gone? he wondered. "And don't you dare say 'because I said so'"

Sherlock looked over his shoulder briefly at the audience they now had before turning back to Molly, stepping towards her and lowering his mouth so that it was almost at her ear. What he was about to admit would be easier without the others eavesdropping. "Because I would never forgive myself if something happened to you."

And with an overdramatic turn and billowing of his coat, Sherlock Holmes left her apartment. John Watson hot on his tail. Just like old times.

After a few minutes of calculating, Jim found just the right spot. He had walked past it about three times in his attempt to remember that day perfectly, but now he was sure he had found the spot. In fact, if he looked very carefully, he could see the outline of 'his' blood still on the ground.

He stretched out, and waited.

When Sherlock pushed through the door to the roof of St Bart's, the first thing he saw, as expected, as James Moriarty. He lay on his back, one arm outstretched, the other gripping his gun. The exact same position he had been in the day they had both faked their deaths. Sherlock flashed to the day he had watched Jim put the barrel in his mouth and pull the trigger. How did he survive it?

"My favourite playmate" Jim greeted, not looking at him. Not even moving.

John reached into his jacket pocket, his hand finding the grip of his own gun. He had been surprised to find his old weapon at the bottom of his overnight bag. It was no exaggeration when he said that Mary thought of everything.

"Release your weapon, Doctor"

John did as he was told. Sherlock glanced at him, his brow knit quizzically as if to ask 'you still carry a gun?'

"I was just reminiscing" Jim sing-songed. "Of the last time we were here. The puzzle it left us with. Is it time yet? Do I get to know how you did it?"

"If this is all you wanted, a discussion of tactics, why did you not just track me down?" Sherlock asked. "Why are you involving Henry?"

Jim laughed, sitting up casually, wrapping his arms around his knees. "Why Sherlock? Are you suggesting you don't get it? I am burn…"

"You're burning the heart out of me." Sherlock concluded.

"Yes" Jim stood. "You told me once that it was popular opinion that you didn't have a heart. What a lie! I knew from the beginning that you had a heart, but silly me, I thought your heart was the good doctor here"

John stood taller under the scrutiny of the mad man before him.

"And as your best friend, he is your heart. Part of it, at least. But I kept tabs on you, dear Sherlock. You didn't take John with you on your adventure. Or Lestrade. Or that landlady of yours. You didn't take them. But you took something, didn't you. You took someone."

John was confused. Irene?

Jim reached into his pocket and removed a glossy photograph. He held it up for his companions to see. Henry and Molly, the day the child had been born. The same photograph that had been taken from his email account.

"Everyone else was in your mind. But Dr Hooper and the child, they were your heart."

Jim took out another photograph, this time a surveillance one. It showed Sherlock sitting at the end of some unknown bed in an unknown town, studying the photograph of his son.

"I won't hurt them." Jim replied, returning the photographs to his pocket. "And by them I mean Molly and the child. Can't make any promises for the others."

Sherlock watched as Jim made a move to leave. "Is your mobile number the same Holmes? I'll contact you with the next set of instructions. I must dash, have to head home, it's almost tea time and that spawn of yours does love his spaghetti."

It wasn't until Jim left that John said anything "Why are we not going after him?"

"You've forgotten how he operates, haven't you?" Sherlock asked, pacing the rooftop. "He says he won't harm Henry, however I am not willing to risk it"

John watched, baffled. He had forgotten what it was like to trust Sherlock Holmes completely, because that was the dumbest idea. He glanced to the door Moriarty had just exited through. He wanted to chase him, tackle him and beat the truth out of him. Why were they just standing there? Why was Sherlock just standing there? On St. Bart's roof? On the ledge?

Blinking, John realised that that was exactly what his friend was doing. His heart stopped and restarted, pounding so hard he felt it would give way. Sherlock had climbed up onto the ledge of the hospital, standing in the exact spot, almost to the centremetre, that he had been the day…

"Sherlock, get down, now!" John stated clearly over the sound of his heart in his ears. "This instant!"

Sherlock ignored him.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock outstretched his hand. The air whipped around his face the way that it had that day. It was an unusual feeling. The repetition of a past event. The feeling of falling… backwards.

Sherlock Holmes landed heavily on the roof of Bart's. John had grabbed him around the middle and thrown him to safety. Sherlock had no time to recover before John's fist smashed into his nose.

"You fucking idiot!" John growled, pulling his fist back and slamming it into his face again. "/What do you think you are doing? Did you think that was funny? Cute? Huh? Standing up there? Making me watch you stand there again?'

The third punch resulted in an echoing crack. John stopped punching after that. Collapsing onto the roof of Bart's beside his friend.

Thirty seconds passed before John whispered. "Don't you ever do anything like that again, you hear me, never again!"

Sherlock was alarmed. John was crying.

"John?"

"I watched you die!" he bellowed into the air around them, still not turning to look at his friend. "I watched you jump. I watched you fall. I saw you just after you landed."

"But I am here now?"

"And for nearly three years, you weren't" John replied, pulling his jumper over his hand to wipe this face angrily with it. "I mourned for you."

Sherlock had never mourned. Even when his own father had died he didn't feel much about it. The idea of John mourning for him was alien.

"I stopped eating, stopped sleeping" John told him, and at the admittance, Sherlock felt a weird twisting in his stomach. "I cried for you Sherlock, and my god, they were not manly tears, not in the slightest."

"I am sorry" Sherlock said. He thought that was what he was supposed to say in this situation. There really was no data to help with a conversation like this.

He was sorry. That was all he got. An 'I am sorry'. After john had cried, gotten sick, defending his dead friends memory, supported the deceased sociopaths lover during the pregnancy and pretty much been the strongest male role model Henry had. All he was going to get was an 'Iam sorry'?

John stood to leave. He wanted to go. To leave Sherlock there on the roof. He wanted to go back to Molly's and collapse into the arms of Mary.

"You know why I did it" John stopped, halfway between the door and Sherlock. He did not turn back to his friend. Sherlock continued to speak to his retreating back. "But do you want to know how?"

**Thanks for continuing to read and review guys!**

**And I just wanted to let you know that I am working on a few other pieces, some possibly linked to this one, others being all new stories, so keep your eyes peeled. **


	9. Chapter 9

**Burning Hearts**

**Chapter 9**

Despite himself and his previous plan to return to the arms of his beloved, John Watson wanted to hear the story. He believed it safe to bet that Sherlock had known he wouldn't be able to resist a baffling mystery, and there was no other mystery as baffling as how Sherlock Holmes had survived the fall.

He had insisted, however, that the conversation not take place at Barts. He didn't want hear it there. The conversation was put on hold as the pair walked to the street and hailed a cab.

"Where to?" the cabbie asked.

Both men answered together "221B Baker street."

It was not an option to have the conversation that they were about to have in front of the Molly, greg and Mary either.

They were silent the entire journey. John reached into his pocket at one point and took out his handkerchief, passing it to Sherlock, who used it to mop at the dried blood on his face. Both men knew his nose wasn't broken, but for the satisfaction John felt, it may as well have been.

At Baker st, Sherlock paid the cabbie. John went ahead to open the front door, and then ushered his companion up the stairs. He didn't want Mrs Hudson to interrupt them, as there was much the two men needed to say to each other.

John hesitated on the stairs, turning back to Sherlock. Of all the things Sherlock imagined John saying next, what actually left his mouth was not one of them.

"I am not sorry for what you are about to see."

Not usually a swearing man, Sherlock muttered a few choice words under his breath as he entered 221B.

Gone was the living space he had remembered. The dark, mismatched wallpapers and the old rugs coving scratched hardwood. In its place was a living room that looked like it should be on the pages of some design magazine.

The wallpaper had been removed completely, stripped back to the bare walls and then repainted. Off white was the dominant colour, with two soft olive feature walls (one, the column of the fire place, the other, the wall that used to have the graffitied smiley face.) A large flatscreen TV was now on that wall and the main part of the space was dominated by a comfortable looking L-shaped couch. Pictures and art prints in matching frames lined the walls that had once held bullet holes. Before the fire place was a hardwood dinner setting with a large floral arrangement on it.

Sherlock stood agape. "What happened?"

"Mary and I have been working on it" John admitted, scratching the back of his neck nervously. Honestly, John preferred the flat the way it was now, without the skulls and the stench of decay, but it didn't stop it from hurting when Greg had suggested that staying home googling home décor ideas with your girlfriend made you whipped. He had had a quiet life since Sherlock had been gone, but the most important part was that that was how he enjoyed it.

Sherlock walked to the bookshelf, looking at the titles. Gone were his obsure books about random topics, and in their place were cookbooks, medical journals and selected fictions. A picture caught his eye to the left of a colourfully bound book series. A black and white photograph of Mary and John – him standing behind her, wrapping his arms around her, Mary miling back at him. John looked so happy.

"You're moving on" Sherlock said with a decisive nod. He was pleased that someone was making the sometimes miserable doctor happy. "Understandable, you believed I was never coming back. I can see why you deleted all aspects of me."

"Not quite" John replied, gesturing in the direction of Sherlock's old room. Sherlock pushed past his shorter friend and opened the door with a little effort. Everything in there was exactly the same. Exactly.

"Why?" Sherlock asked, glancing around the untouched room. Everything, even down to his blue dressing gown that he had messily draped over the end of his bed that morning was in the same spot. A covering of dust on everything. "This is the bigger bedroom. And it has the built in robe and the ensuite? I don't understand"

John shrugged. "Sentiment"

That funny feeling was back in his stomach, the one that he really didn't know how to describe. John had left his room exactly the way he had it. Sherlock didn't want to admit that he didn't understand, so instead he pushed past John and into the alien familiar living room.

"I tried to tell you I wasn't actually going to die."

John scoffed at his best friends words. Sherlock had tried to tell him? He went back over the conversation they had had that day. The details were blurry. There were elements that he didn't remember, but he was sure that Sherlock hadn't told him anything of the sort.

"I told you 'It's a trick. A magic trick'" Sherlock began, sitting on the couch. John raised an eyebrow, obviously confused. "I don't believe in magic John"

John rubbed his eyes. It had been a long and emotionally tiring day. He sat on the other side of the long couch and sighed. "I think you better start from the beginning'

"I knew Morirty's endgame long before I went up onto the roof" Sherlock began, retreating back into his memory. He knew exactly where he had been when he realised it. At the microscopes in Molly's lab. "I knew he intended on having me kill myself. I knew that was what he wanted and there was nothing else I could do. So I went to Molly for help."

John nodded. He knew Molly was involved.

"She was the one who came up with it all actually. She shocked me with her brilliant plan. A simple one, I'll admit, so simple that I wasn't sure at first that it would work. She convinced me otherwise, however. Simplicity is the enemy of all complex thinkers. Sometimes two plus two really does make four. We were betting, rightly, I'll remind you, that Moriarty would see two plus two and assume I wanted him to get five."

"I didn't want you there" Sherlock admitted, looking to his best friend. "Molly's first step was to get her friend to call you and tell you the story about Mrs Hudson being shocked. I then needed to make you angry. I wanted you to leave and then be disinclined to come back. I wanted you to leave, because if there was a way that you could have not witnessed it all, then that would have been so much easier. But you returned."

"I am sorry" John whispered angrily. "Are you annoyed that I got in the way of your suicide?"

"I never intended for you to see my jump. I was jumping for the benefits of the sniper. I never intended for you to see it. if we could do it all again, you wouldn't have seen it. I was to call you. It should have taken you longer to get to Baker St. Or to make the return trip. I had hoped, if…when you realised what was going on and made it back to Bart's it would be later. Much later. Then Molly could have told you I died without you having to see it."

"You were trying to spare my feelings?" John asked, amazed. It seemed Sherlock did have a heart after all.

"I was" he agreed, the admission that he had done something like that for John felt heavy on his tongue. "I didn't want you to see it, but there you were. I had to go ahead with it, but I had to ensure you saw exactly what I wanted you to see."

John remembered something. "You told me where to stand. You wouldn't let me come any closer."

"Sightlines. The building in front of Bart's blocked where I landed. If you had of come any closer, then you would have seen that I didn't hit the ground."

"But you did" John replied. "After you jumped. I saw you. On the ground, your face smashed in"

"No, you saw someone on the ground, their face smashed in" Sherlock replied. "You saw, but you did not observe"

John looked at him for a while before leading his friend on with the wave of his hand.

"There was a truck. It sat in the prime position. Blocked by the building, unable to be seen by either you or the sniper. A laundry truck. Molly ensured it was there at the right time"

"Molly did?"

"She orchestrated the whole thing, it was all her plan, remember" Sherlock admitted, and John couldn't help but notice the admiration in his voice. "I landed in the back of the truck."

John's reaction was unexpected to both men. He laughed. John Watson sat, staring at his best friend, laughing. "You jumped into a truck of dirty laundry to make your escape?"

"Shut up" Sherlock mumbled, waiting for John's laughter to subside.

"Ok, then" john smiled, regaining his composure. "The body I saw? With the smashed up face?"

"Carter Jackson" Sherlock replied. "A man who had come into the morgue the day before, thankfully with a believable resemblance to me. Bless Molly's access to bodies and blood. She had been hiding under the truck, waiting. When she saw me jump, she rolled out the body, spread the fake blood, and jumped into the waiting passenger seat of the truck."

"Wait, how is that… I don't… I am a doctor Sherlock!"

"Obviously" Sherlock replied, unsure of why the fact had been brought to light.

"First response to the scene would have known that the body before him hadn't just died. Especially if this Jackson fellow had been dead since the day before. There would be obvious signs. Any doctor worth their salt…"

"Any intern who hadn't been trying to get into the pants of Doctor Hooper, you mean?"

John's jaw dropped.

"You used a young doctor? You used a young doctor's feelings for Molly?" John began, then paused, remembering who he was talking to. This was Sherlock, who complimented Molly on her hair and make-up in order to inspect corpses. Using an interns feelings for Molly would mean nothing to him. "I guess I can't really be surprised by that"

"The truck went around the corner and we got out. Took the back entrance into the morgue. Molly gave me a powerful sedative and threw fake blood on me, locking Jackson out of sight. A few people came to see me over the next few hours, it seemed. To confirm I was dead. When it was safe, she woke me up and took me home."

"And let me believe that you were dead?"

"I had to" Sherlock implored. "I had to keep you safe."

"But Molly knowing?"

"I didn't care about Molly the way I…" Sherlock paused, and then threw caution to the wind, knowing that if anyone would understand, it would be John. "I hadn't realised I cared about her safety. Cared about her, until after I had put her in danger. It's the reason why, even though I knew she knew I was alive, I never contacted her. Even though I knew about Henry, I never… she was better off, safer, without me. You all were…maybe you still are"

"We are no safer without you" John replied. "All of this was happening in spite of you being gone."

"And that fact consumes me every moment of every day" Sherlock snapped. "I was so close John, so close to finishing this. I had only a few names left on my list, and then I would be coming back. For you and for Henry and for Molly. I would be coming home. And now, just because I exist… Just because I didn't double check that Moriarty was alive, Henry, my son…my son…"

Sherlock made a noise of frustration, stood, and began pacing the room. "Nothing ever works out simply. I see the path; I see how things should work. But something always gets in the way. Usually it is someone else's stupidity. But this time…" he turned to John, and there was something in his eyes that the doctor had never seen. A plea. "The sentiment is making it hard to think."

John stood. His mind, always jumping to funny places, leapt to a day when he was 15, the first time he had been in love. It was had been an amazingly scary feeling, the lack of control. He remembered his grades slipping for the month he had been with her, because he couldn't think, feel or do anything that didn't involve her. Sherlock was doing that now at age 35. Feeling love for the first time. But it wasn't a pass in algebra that needed to be achieved alongside these feelings. It was the protection of Henry. A whole other life depended on him. And the happiness of a woman that he clearly cared greatly for.

"Sherlock" John began. But stopped. He didn't know what to say, didn't know how to make his friend feel better. The only thing he could thing to say was "Henry will be ok"

Sherlock was about to lose his temper, about to yell that John had no way of knowing that, when his phone interrupted them. A text. He dug the object out of his pocket.

_Come out and play Sherlock. The eye – JM_

"London eye" Sherlock sighed, returning his phone to his pocket and turning to the door. John was only a step behind him as they powered down the stairs.

And obstacle stood at the door, however. Struggling with her shopping, Mrs Hudson smiled up at her boys "Hello Sherlock, John. Be dears and help me carry these bags will you, my hip is giving me trouble you see…"

If it had been anyone else, John would have found the situation comical. Mrs Hudson dropped her shopping, groceries going all over the entrance hall. She raised her hands to her mouth. "Sherlock?"

"Hello, Mrs Hudson"

"But, But you're… you're… you died!" she shrieked.

"That got boring, so I came back" Sherlock tried to joke. It obviously was the wrong thing to say, as soon Mrs Hudson began slapping him around the head.

"You insufferable man. You wretched human" she cursed, accentuating each one with a slap. "Why would you do that to us? I don't understand. We went to your funeral. We…I cleaned your experiments out of that fridge. You… you better have a good explanation for this, young man!"

"Our safety was on the line, it seemed" John added, coming to the defence of his friend. Sherlock shot him a thankful glance.

"Our safety?" she whispered, a hand clutching her heart. "Oh, if I had my time again Sherlock Holmes, I would think twice about letting that flat to you. Experiments, gun fights, angry Americans, the violin. And now this!"

"I do apologise" he whispered, kissing her on the forehead. It seemed that this apology thing was getting easier and easier the more he did it. He was even starting to sound as sincere as he felt.

"Oh dear" Mrs Hudson interrupted, remembering the situation. "Henry, is he?"

"Still missing" John filled in. "We were just on our way, actually"

"Then go, go" she shooed the two men out the door. "Don't let me keep you. But you owe me a full and proper explanation when all this is finished, Sherlock Holmes"

With an affirmative nod, John and Sherlock left.

The London eye was crowded with people. From a quick glance at the time on his phone, he knew it would be. Sherlock's only hope was that this would not result in the injuring of innocent people.

He was comforted by the fact that John was with him. During his cases abroad through his death, he had missed john and his companionship. So much so that he had once had a whole conversation with the man although he was not there. Irene had overheard it and thought it weird, which then led to her trying to tell him that weird was, in some cases, incredibly sexy.

The exited their cab at the rank outside of the popular tourist destination. They had no further instructions yet. Just to come and play. He was there, so where was Jim.

They stood for minutes, Sherlock scanning all faces, searching for his foe. John, on the other hand, was scanning the surrounding area for other clues. There was too much going on. Too much activity. The place was set up for tourists. There was an evening market on, lots of stalls and carts around, each selling souvenirs. Union jack flags and stuffed bears, balloons and ice cream were sold and carried by all people around them.

"Wait" John whispered, but it still caught the consulting detectives attention. "Wait, Sherlock, he isn't here."

"What? He told us to…"

"You've forgotten how he operates, haven't you?" John smirked; reaching into his jacket pocket, retrieving his mobile and hitting speed dial for Molly's house.

Sherlock was in the process of asking what the hell was going on, when John held up his hand, silencing him. "Molly"

He put the phone on speaker, for Sherlock to hear. "Yes? Have you…"

"Not yet." John replied. "But Molly, that bedtime story Henry loves, the one you know off by heart?"

"'Goodnight Moon'?" Molly asked, clearly confused. "What about it?'

"What are some of the things the bunny says goodnight too?"

Molly, who had read that story a thousand times quickly rattled off. "The picture of the bears…"

"Three little bears in three little chairs, wasn't it?" John asked. Molly confirmed. John then pointed to a vendor selling commemorative tourist bears. His stall was called 'Three Little Bears' and the sign was of three bears in chairs. "What else Molly?"

"Mice and kittens, socks and mittens?" she told him. John looked around. No mice, no kittens. A few people were wearing mittens, but it was not enough to be a clue.

"No, something else."

"Umm, a clock. A picture of the cow jumping over the moon. A toy house?"

Sherlock hit him on the shoulder and took off down the street. Two vendors down from the bear man was a woman selling doll houses. She was the last stall before the corner of the street.

"Excellent Molly" John coached. "What else?"

"A comb, a brush, a bowl full of mush?"

But surprisingly, Sherlock spoke next. "Red balloons, aren't there Molly?"

Molly nodded, shocked that he knew that, before realising you can't nod on a phone conversation and replying "Yes"

"And a telephone right?" Sherlock asked. When Molly responded positively, he added "I never understood why the author references the telephone; they never talk about it again in the story"

John then watched as Sherlock took off down the street a second time. About a hundred meters in front of them stood a telephone box. Tied to its door handle was a single red balloon.

And inside the box, the phone was ringing.

**A/N: Ooh, some feels, some discussion of character feels, Molly having a mastermind streak, Mrs Hudson, and a little bit of action. Yay. **

**I just wanted to let you know that just because I used this theory of the fall in the story, it is not the one that I adhere to. Honestly, I don't have a theory, and I love the fact that I have no clue. I would hate to watch the episode for the big reveal and it be something that I had worked out. It is adding to the suspense. **

**Hope everything was ok with this chapter. I liked writing it. **


	10. Chapter 10

**Burning Hearts**

**Chapter Ten**

**A/N: I need to apologise for the late update. My local area has been hit by a natural disaster in the last few days and we were on the verge of evacuation. Don't worry, we are all ok, but we went almost two days without power or phone lines. I had my laptop charged up, wrote a bit, and managed to find just enough coverage to get another fic up, then it was radio silence again. Sorry. This chap is a little shorter, mainly filled with sentiment (shudder) but I promise I will update a longer one as soon as possible. **

Mary heard Molly on the phone in the living room while she made them tea. It was an unusual and intriguing conversation that made her realise it could only be with Sherlock and John. Molly had warned her that things had a tendency to move fast and be unusual when Sherlock was on a case, so she was trying to go with the flow.

The flow that had seen Molly's apartment, a place that was usually so comfortable, turned on its head by the addition of many unusual faces.

Along with Greg's constant (and comforting) presence was at least three officers. They came and went as they pleased, and Mary found it hard to keep track of them. They hardly noticed her anyway, instead entering and leaving without even acknowledging others in the room, heading straight to the detective inspector, having hushed conversations and then leaving again.

Mycroft, whilst not an unusual presence in Molly's apartment had been there a while, talking quietly with the young 'Anthea' (Mary had met her a few times before, but never actually believed that to be her name). Mycroft had an overnight bag with him, but she was unsure of where he intended on sleeping.

The most unusual face of all was that of Irene. Mary had no idea who the woman was, but knew that the way she held herself with an air of sophistication that she was someone important. Or she at least thought herself to be important. Without asking too many questions, Mary had managed to piece together that Irene had been travelling with Sherlock, had met most of her friends before and had a talent for faking her death.

But as John had pointed out earlier, it seemed everyone had a talent for faking their death these days.

Having this woman in the house was putting Molly on edge. She could sense that of all the intrusions into her private life over the last few days, it was the intrusion of this Irene woman that made her the angriest. Greg and Mycroft were practically family, but this woman…

"Kettle just boiled, if you want a cup, help yourself." Mary announced softly as she handed a cup to Molly. Molly smiled up at her weakly as she hung up her phone.

"I don't know what the lead is" Molly announced carefully, trying to stay strong "but John sounded like he was onto something."

"You recited Goodnight Moon" Mycroft stated, a gentle smile, or as close to a smile as he could muster, graced his face. "That was one of Sherlock's favourites as a child, used to make me read it to him every night before he would settle."

The room went silent as they turned to the oldest Holmes. He had turned back to his work, but looked up when he realised there were eyes on him. "That's why I gave Henry the book Molly"

Molly nodded, remembering where the old copy of the book had come from Uncle Mycroft on Henry's first birthday. She smiled a little to herself. Mycroft had been making sure little parts of Sherlock were in Henry's life from the very beginning, and Molly was thankful for that.

Greg stood and stretched "Molls, I am going to go" he began, and Molly stood from her chair to walk him to the door. "Everything looks to be in order here and well, with the boys on it, there is not much I can do. I will be back in the morning. Call me if anything happens throughout the night, anything at all."

Molly nodded, opening the door and following Greg out onto the small landing outside of her apartment. Leaving the door ajar, she threw her arms around the older man's neck.

"Thank you for everything" she whispered in his embrace.

Greg wrapped his arms around the smaller woman and couldn't help himself from inhaling her hair a little. "I am just doing…"

"You're not just doing your job, Greg" she replied, still holding him. "You've gone above and beyond. You are a great man and a fantastic friend"

Overcome by her words, Greg kissed her forehead and moved to leave the landing.

Mary returned to the living room to see Anthea pulling on her coat. She excused herself with a small, sincere smile, pushing past Molly and also leaving the apartment.

"I was intending on staying here Molly" Mycroft began, and Molly was impressed to hear that there was a tone of question in the statement. "However, I am afraid that you have no space for me."

Molly looked around the room, pausing briefly on Irene and Mary. Molly was not willing to let Mary leave her now, needing her best friend more than anything. Irene, on the other hand, had assumed she was staying without even asking.

"Stay Mycroft" Molly replied without real thought. Of course Mycroft was staying. He was family. He was Henry's uncle and a man who had been a huge support, both financially and emotionally since Henry had been born, if he wanted to stay, he would stay. "You can take my bed, I will sleep in Henry's room"

Mary and Mycroft both protested at once. Mycroft's voice was louder "I am fine to take the couch"

Molly shot a look to Irene, whom she had assumed was going to be sleeping on the couch. Irene caught the look, much to Molly's dismay, and said "Sherlock and I are already set up in the guest bedroom."

Molly's jaw dropped, but she recovered it quite quickly. Mary noticed, and took a step closer to her friend. Molly steeled her resolve and announced. "Very well. I will be in Henry's room, Mary, you will take my bed, with John when he returns," Molly held up a hand to cut off her friend's protest, "Mycroft, if you are sure that you will be comfortable on the couch, then it is yours, and Irene… You and Sherlock will be in the guest room."

Molly then turned, and retreated to Henry's room.

Molly felt like such an idiot. Who would have thought that a mere conversation about sleeping arrangements would make her feel so angry. After everything the last few days had thrown at her, it was that, the knowledge that Sherlock would be sleeping in the same bed as Irene, that made her angry. Molly felt guilty. She was letting all this get to her when she should be more focused on her son. henry was more important. How dare she be jealous at a time like this. He had managed without Sherlock for so long, why was this affecting her when he had only been back a day.

it was silly to be so hung up on it all and she hated herself for it. A man she used to love had moved on in the nearly three years he had been gone. It was only natural. Not one to openly admit it, Sherlock had human needs. It was unrealistic to think that he would have waited for her, especially since there had never been any conversation discussing whether or not they would. Sherlock had been away, and forgotten about her. His attention, it seemed, was now locked on the intimidatingly gorgeous Irene Adler.

She pushed all those childish thoughts aside. Henry J Hooper was all she was going to let herself care about.

Molly sat in the rocking chair and reached for the 'Goodnight Moon'. Something in this had been a clue for the boys to follow. No matter how badly her head and heart were waring, she was glad Sherlock was here. If anyone was to bring Henry back, it was him.

Molly raised the book to her nose and inhaled. It smelt of Henry. The soap of a hundred bedtimes clinging to its pages. The book was old and well worn, the pages turned a million times. Molly opened the book and took in the pictures. Sherlock's favourite, then Henry's favourite. A tangible link between father and son.

She closed the book and then opened it again, intent to just look at the pictures, when something caught her eye. On the very first page, in the top left hand corner, was a small, faded scribble. Molly held it up to her face and smirked.

'Sherlock J Holmes' was written there sloppily. It was the obvious handwriting of a child who had just learnt how to spell his name. An obviously intelligent child, as the L in both Sherlock and Holmes had perfect cursive loops, but a novice, as the lowercase H in his first name was back the front.

Mycroft had given Henry Sherlock's own copy of Goodnight Moon. And the Holmes men said they didn't believe in sentiment.

Sherlock pulled the receiver from its cradle. "Jim"

"You worked out the first set of clues" Jim laughed on the other end of the line. "Although, let's be honest. It wasn't you, was it? The credit should go to Dr Watson, should it not? He worked it out."

"Yes, John was of great assistance to me" Sherlock admitted, looking over his shoulder to John, who smiled nervously. Sherlock turned back, scanning the crowds in front of him. If he knew Jim, and he did, then they were being watched at that very moment.

"He always has been, hasn't he?" Jim asked. "And it made me realise that this whole game thing isn't fair. I mean a single player up against a team. Not fair play at all. Especially for this test - He knows all the answers."

A terrified scream broke the silence, and Sherlock turned just in time to see John collapse to the ground, blood pouring from a gunshot wound to the chest.

**A/N: Jim did say he wouldn't harm Molly or Henry, but made no guarantees about the others…**


	11. Chapter 11

Burning Hearts

Chapter 11

**A/N: So I need to admit that this fic has taken on a life of its own. The little gunshot at the end of the last chapter came out of my keyboard before I even knew what was happening. About four times today, before I started typing this new chapter, I stopped in my every day work and went "Holy Crap, you shot John last night!"… this chapter is a little angsty, not going to lie. **

"John!"

The cackling of a mad man fell away from his ear as he dropped the receiver and exited the phone booth. He pulled his scarf from his neck quickly and dropped to his knees, pressing it against John's chest. Blood pooled around his hands, soaking the fabric almost instantly.

Around them people were screaming and running. Sherlock looked over his shoulder and bellowed "Someone call an ambulance!"

John was struggling to stay awake. He never believed that he would be experiencing the burning pain of a gunshot wound again. Not only 5 years after the last time he was shot. He tried to focus, to remain calm, and to make sure he was there, in his body, to not go towards the light, but everything around him was starting to feel cold.

He hadn't felt that way last time. Last time the shot was in the shoulder, and while the pain was overwhelming, hadn't turned him cold. His mind had stayed focused; he had managed to keep talking through the conscious parts of it. This time it was through the chest, and instantly the compulsion to close his eyes was there.

John concentrated on what he could. Anything to keep him awake. The still far of sound of sirens. The screaming and crying of people fleeing. Sherlock above him, pressing his blue scarf to his chest, telling him to stay there with him. Focus on Sherlock, he told himself, replaying a voice from his past in his head. 'Keep your eyes fixed on me'

There was a streak of blood, his blood, on Sherlock's cheek, and John deduced that he had wiped away some sweat at some point since starting to assist him. Sherlock was also saying something to him, over and over. John tried as hard as he could to focus on the words, on what his newly returned best friend was saying.

"Don't you leave me John" Sherlock demanded, and if John was feeling stronger, he would have pointed out that Sherlock had left him for three years, but honestly, the strength just wasn't there. He even wanted to tell his friend that his turn of phrase would surely make people talk, but it was not the time for that sort of joking.

John wasn't ready to die. Too much was happening. He needed to make sure that Henry was safe, he needed to marry Mary and he still hadn't had the chance to work through his unresolved Sherlock-return feelings. And oh yeah, he hadn't killed Moriarty with his bare hands yet. There as too much to do. He wasn't going to die today.

The pain stopped a few seconds later, so John felt himself relaxing. Resigned to the fact that he may not have a say in whether or not he died, John felt himself going with it. The coldness in his body was now replaced by warmth, like a beach in the summertime. And that was exactly where he was, on a beach, with Mary holding him. Molly was a little distance away, making a sandcastle with Henry. Greg was there, passing him a beer from the cooler, and Sherlock was even there, whinging about the whole idea of the beach.

That beach was the last thing he remembered before the world fell away.

Sherlock watched as they loaded John into the back of the ambulance then climbed in after him. The paramedic looked to stop him, but the image of the blood covered consulting detective made him keep his mouth shut. Sherlock had seen the look on the young paramedic's face, and merely replied with "I am family, he's my brother."

The paramedics worked on John all the way to the hospital. Sherlock just sat, being jostled by the speed of the ambulance, and stared at the blood on his hands. John's blood. Literally and metaphorically, he had John's blood on his hands. Returning had been the worst decision of his life.

He had been right earlier at Baker st. He was a danger to be around. The people he cared about were getting hurt due to his very existence. Henry, Molly and now John. Who was next? Greg? Mycroft? It was all too much.

This had made his next step after this case so much easier. When John was better and Henry was returned to Molly, he would be leaving London, leaving his friends, and would never be coming back. It would be safer that way.

They had lived three years without him and gotten along just fine. John had met Mary and was finally happy. Mycroft had found something to channel all of his fuzzy feelings into other than cake. Molly was happy as a mother, and maybe if Sherlock was to leave again, a certain detective inspector would finally act on his feelings. If another man was to raise his son, Sherlock wanted it to be Greg. Yes, as soon as this case was wrapped up, Sherlock was going to leave again.

He kept up the pace with the doctors and paramedics as they ran John down the hallway through the emergency entrance. He tried to take in as much as he could about what they were saying, memorising parts of their diagnosis and searching his mind palace for anything useful, but nothing was being absorbed into the sponge. The doors of the palace were being slammed in his face. All Sherlock could think was that he was the reason John was dying. Guilt.

A nurse stopped him when he could go no further with a gentle hand and a reassuring smile. "He is in good hands."

Sherlock was ushered into a small, private waiting room. He pulled out his phone, and mentally prepared himself for the hardest phone call of his life.

Mary jumped when her phone began to ring. It was late, and the house had fallen into a silence. She had not been sleeping, but going through a photo album, looking at pictures of Henry. She missed him terribly.

Her phone flashed 'blocked number' and she hesitated. The last time it had done that, Jim had been on the other end informing her that he had stolen her son. What would she be met with when she answered the phone this time? She hit the send button and raised the phone to her ear.

"Hello?"

"Molly?"

At first, Molly didn't recognise the broken voice on the other end of the line. It was small and weak, a hollow representation of its owner. "Sherlock?"

"Molly" the voice whispered again, as though saying her name was bringing him immense comfort. Molly panicked.

"Sherlock, oh god, what is it?" She asked, standing, the photo album clattering to the floor. A million different scenarios flashed through her mind. All of them involving Henry and some sort of injury. Even without knowing the details, tears rolled down her cheeks. It had to be bad news; she sensed it in his voice. "Sherlock, talk to me. Is it... Henry?"

"No" he began, and Molly relaxed instantly. It was all shattered again when Sherlock admitted. "It's John. Come to Barts"

Molly then hung up on him, leaving Sherlock to worry in silence. She needed to wake Mary and the others.

Greg was the first to arrive, even though Sherlock hadn't called him. It seemed that when someone had reported the shooting, Greg had put it all together. He looked frazzled and dazed, as though he had been suddenly woken up.

Anthea, surprisingly was next, still on her phone but announcing to the others that Mycroft, Mary and Molly were on their way. Sherlock didn't bother taking the time to wonder why Mycroft had still been at Molly's.

Sherlock was frustrated. No one was giving him any answers. No one would tell him anything. Even under the ruse of being John's brother, no one would tell him anything about his surgery or his treatment. The most he had managed to get from the nurses was that John was in the operating room, and it was going to be a long one, because the shot was near fatal.

Sherlock wished the bullet had of hit him instead.

Mary and Molly entered the waiting room with Mycroft close behind them. Mary was pale and fragile, her bottom lip red raw from being bitten during the whole journey there.

Surprisingly, Irene was also with them.

"John's been shot" Greg began, and Sherlock was glad that the detective inspector had been the one to say the words. He was trained at delivering sad news to the family and loved ones of victims, and obviously was treating it with more respect than Sherlock could have.

Mary's legs could no longer take her weight, but luckily Mycroft reached out and gripped her firmly, stopping her from colliding with the hospital floor. "It was a sniper, set up to take him out. It hit him in the chest"

Mycroft led Mary to an empty chair. Sherlock couldn't help but stare at her, her grief evident as she sobbed. Molly hugged her, trying as hard as she could to comfort her, but Mary looked beyond repair. She kept repeating the same things over and over "No, not John" and "This can't be happening"

Had that what his friends had been like when he had 'died'? Had they cried and screamed and sobbed for him? Begging for it to not be real? Making deals to bring him back? The only one who would have felt that strongly about him was Molly, and she had known that he was still alive.

Sherlock stood, ignoring the attention that the movement made, and exited the waiting room.

"Where are you going?' Molly called, chasing Sherlock out into the hallway. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock ignored her, continuing down the hallway towards the nearest exit. She caught up with him, grabbing his hand and with strength she didn't even know she had, pulled the taller man to face her. "Where are you going?" she repeated.

"To find Henry" Sherlock muttered, looking at the wall behind her to not make eye contact. He felt out of control, at a loss. Moriarty had taken his…their…her son, and now he had tried to take away John too. He had been hurt by the sentiment he was feeling for these people. He needed to get out of there, to finish the case and run away. "To find Moriarty and finish this, once and for all."

"But John"

"Will me holding a candle light vigil by his bed make him get through this?" Sherlock asked, grabbing her by the shoulders and finally making eye contact. "Really Molly, will it? Because if it will, I will sit there and not move until he opens his eyes. I will do anything… I need to… I have to go, I have to fix this, I've done enough damage, and every moment I just sit here…"

Molly shrugged his grip off of her arms and raised a tender hand to his cheek, stroking it softly. He was scared, she could feel it and she wanted nothing more than to pull him into her arms. "Sherlock"

Sherlock's eyes closed softly and he leant into her gentle caress. Then, as quickly as he had accepted it, he came back to himself and stepped away.

"Don't you want Henry back?" He asked coldly, ignoring the moment the pair had just shared. "Because that is what I am proposing."

Molly was hurt at the accusation. "Of course I want Henry back. He is my son"

"Each moment I sit, concerned for John, is another moment without Henry. This has gone on far too long." Determination dripped from every word in the sentence. Sherlock stood taller, stronger and Molly, who had never feared the consulting detective in her life, felt intimidated by his mere presence.

"I'll…'

"We've covered this" Sherlock said, slightly exasperated. "You are not coming with me."

"You trusted me once"

Sherlock rubbed his face. Molly's determination was astounding, but he couldn't take her. He was finishing the case and then he was leaving, it was as easy as that. He couldn't take her, become attached to her, do anything that would stand in the way of him leaving them again at the end of all this.

"I shouldn't have. I shouldn't have trusted anyone. Everyone who I trust, who I bring into my life ends up being hurt by me. John's dying and you are the mother of a kidnapped boy. The sooner I close this case, the better it will be for all."

Sherlock turned away from her and made quick strides to the door again. Molly just called after him. "You're leaving again?"

He paused, his hand on the door handle. He spoke, mainly to himself after that, stating. "I have to. I am dangerous"

"You're not"

"Drop it Molly, what did you expect to happen?" Sherlock growled, spinning back on her and taking two steps back in her direction. Molly stood her ground. "That I would come back here and take you into my arms? That I would suddenly be a man capable of love and that I would drop to one knee and marry you? Make an honest woman out of you? That Saturday afternoons would be spent at Henry's soccer games? Or BBQ-ing? That we would double date with John and Mary? Have more children?"

Molly recoiled only slightly. Not in so many words, but a little part of her had hoped that something like that would happen. A bigger, more realistic part of her knew that that was not the way their relationship would work out, but she had always hoped that he would be around, in her life, even if it was just in a detective/pathologist relationship. She wanted to know he was safe, wanted to know that he had not done something stupid. Wanted to know what if he ever needed her again, she would be there with whatever assistance she could provide.

When she came back to herself, Sherlock was gone. The door opened again, and his voice, not his body travelled through the gap. "Have Lestrade text me when John is out of surgery."

Molly wrapped her arms around herself. These would go down in infamy as the hardest days of her life thus far. Harder than her father dying, which had previously held the number one spot. Always one to believe in jinxes, Molly didn't dare even think that things would have to start looking up.

Re-entering the waiting room, Mary had stopped her hysterics. Now she sat, staring at the floor in front of her. Greg and Mycroft were discussing something quietly, and Anthea and Irene were locked in a standoff to the side. Molly rushed to her Mary's side, hugging her. "Do you need anything?"

"Yes" Mary whispered, turning to look Molly dead in the eye. "Go home"

Molly was taken aback. Did Mary really tell her to leave the hospital? Didn't she need to be there for her, like a good friend should?

"We are stretched too thin Molly" Mary began, speaking over the lump in her throat that threatened to silence her at any moment. "Between caring for Henry and caring for John, plus the added stress of Sherlock, well, being Sherlock. It's too much for any one person. I am worried about you. Go home"

"But…"

"Molly, please" Mary begged, taking her friends hand in hers. "I am not saying I don't want you here, or need you, because I do, I mean, John is… but… I am suggesting we each take on one thing. I am no good to John if I am exhausted, and you'll never be able to support Henry if you are crazy with other worries. You focus of Henry, and I will focus on John. We keep each other updated on progress, but… You know I am right"

Molly sighed, of course she was right. It made sense.

Mary had seemed relieved that she had gotten through to her. "I promise I will let you know the moment he is out of surgery. And you will keep me updated on anything related to Henry?"

"Of course"

The pair embraced again, not wanting to let the other go. Neither woman knew when they would see each other again, what with Mary not planning on leaving the hospital until John was out of the woods. It could be days and if the last few had proven anything, a lot could happen in a day. "Molly?"

"Yes Mary?"

Mary pulled back, took her friends hands in hers and asked sincerely "Will you be my maid of honour?"

Molly pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead "Of course my dear"

They embraced again and then Molly stood, moving to the other side of the waiting room. She explained the situation to Mycroft and Greg, that she was going to head home and refocus on Henry, leaving Mary to be the one in charge of John's progress. Both men agreed that it was a good idea.

"I'll drive you home Molls" Greg offered. Molly agreed, but wasn't all that surprised when Mycroft volunteered to stay with Mary. Mycroft has taken a purely platonic liking to Mary, and although they had not spent much time in each other's company, Molly could tell that Mary would be comforted by the familiar face.

Molly only made it two steps before turning back. "Irene?"

Irene looked up at her, and shook her head to decline to invitation of a lift home. "I am off to see a few people actually."

Molly nodded, not actually caring where the witch of a woman went. In fact, she hoped Irene would accidently walk into the Thames and drown.

They continued towards the exit, when Molly stopped one last time. Something had caught her eye, and she needed to investigate. Greg stopped and looked back at Molly, who had approached another woman standing alone in the hall.

The two females locked eyes, and the light of recognition finally went off in Molly's. "Harry?"

"You must be Molly" the other woman stated. Molly nodded, and hugged the other woman. "I recognise you from all of the pictures that Johnny has around his house."

Molly winced. She had never met Harry Watson before, but she knew for a fact how much he detested it when she would call him Johnny.

"You look like him" Molly replied. Now that Greg knew who it was that he was looking at, he realised that this woman did in fact look like John. Small in stature with straw blonde hair and the same character filled eyes and mouth. The only difference was that Harry looked older, aged artificially, probably by the drink.

"Is he…" Harry asked carefully, gesturing to the room "Ok?"

"He is still in surgery" Molly responded. Harry nodded. "He may be there for some time. Why don't you go in and wait…"

Harry cut her off "No, I… I can't. He won't be happy that I am here."

"Rubbish" Greg smiled, joining the two ladies and placing a reassuring hand on Harry's arm. "John would be very happy that you are here. You are his family, after all"

"On paper maybe" Harry lamented. "No, I won't stay, I just… I wanted to know he was ok. Always getting into trouble, Johnny was. He doesn't need more in the likes of me"

Molly hugged Harry again, and was surprised when the woman she hardly knew hugged back. "Shall I keep you updated of his progress? Maybe when he comes out of surgery, we could visit him together?"

Harry nodded, and the two women exchanged phone numbers.

"That was really nice, what you did for Harry Watson in there." Greg smiled softly as he ushered Molly into his car. Molly shrugged. Extending a hand of kindness to a woman in need was nothing.

"She's John's family." Molly replied, shrugging.

Sensing that she didn't want to talk, Greg drove them back to her apartment in silence. When the stopped on the footpath, he even got out of the car and helped her out of the passenger side.

"You would have made an amazing Copper, you know that Molls?" Greg began, walking up to the stairs at the front of her apartment building. Molly couldn't help but laugh as she pulled her keys out of her pocket.

"Whys that?"

"Your courage under fire. Your determination in the face of danger. Your need to stand up for what is just and right. Your compassion. Attributes that even some of the best officers I know don't have all the time"

Molly shrugged nonchalantly. She was just being herself.

"Don't sell yourself short Molls" he smiled, resting his hand on her shoulder in a comforting gesture "You're an amazing woman, a wonderful friend, a fantastic mother, an exceptional doctor…"

Molly didn't know what was happening until she was too late to stop it. She didn't know how it had happened, but Greg, it seemed, was kissing her.

**A/N: Detective Inspector Silver Fox has the WORST timing, doesn't he?**


	12. Chapter 12

**Burning Hearts **

**Chapter 12**

**A/N: sorry it took me so long to update this time around. I was having some writing issues, as well as having to take time off from life to clean up after the natural disaster we have just had. Not fun. Hope this one is ok… **

Mary was numb. It was the only way to describe it, numb. Many times before, she had heard grief being described as a numb experience, but she had never felt it. Never first hand. She had watched young mothers lose their babies, and she had seen, whilst at the hospital, many people die, but never before had she felt numb.

She was feeling all this, and John wasn't even dead.

He was still in surgery, but she had hopes that he would be out soon. Then he would go to post op, then back to the wards. Then she would be able to see him. Mary wanted nothing more than to sit by his bedside and hold his hand, to feel his palm against hers, to know that he was still there, still alive. That he hadn't left her yet.

Maybe then, the numbness would subside.

She was curled up as comfortably as she could be on the hard, plastic waiting room chairs. A nurse had come through a little earlier and left three blankets for their use. Mary had grabbed one straight away, pulling it over herself and hiding it its thin, scratchy warmth. The other two had sat, unused, on one of the many empty chairs.

Mycroft was still there, he had volunteered to wait with her after she had sent Molly away. Mary was happy he was there. She had never been exceptionally close with Mycroft. Just a friendly face at Henry related gatherings, but in the last two days, the loyalty he had shown not only to Molly but also to herself was amazing. Mycroft Holmes was a remarkably compassionate human being, even if he didn't show it often.

Mary watched as Mycroft stood from his chair on the far wall (He had excused himself to read the paper a little earlier and she was sure that had something to do with his job) and retrieved one of the discarded blankets. He unfurled it, moving towards Anthea, and placed it gently over it.

Anthea staying had surprised her too. The young woman had spent the night alternating between messaging on her phone and shooting glances at Mycroft. At first, Mary had wondered if she was texting friends, cancelling an abundance of weekend plans because she had been called into work (a woman like Anthea would have many friends, she was sure), but there was more to it.

The way Anthea and Mycroft kept looking at each other, small smiles before they went back to their mobiles. The way they had hushed conversations, pressed together so closely that they were touching. The way Anthea had been sincere in all of her well wishes when it came to Henry…

Mary looked up as Mycroft finished tucking Anthea in, and witnessed him leaning down and pressing an almost no existent kiss to the younger girls head. It dawned on her then, and Mary broke the almost hour long silence. "How long have the two of you been together?"

"Sorry?"

Mycroft looked across to where Mary was sitting, almost as though he had forgotten that she was in the room. He closed the gaps between the two of them, sitting in the vacant chair next to Mary.

"You and Anthea, you are a unique couple, to say the least." Mary clarified, indicating with her eyes and a gentle flick of her head to the sleeping woman he had just covered. "How long?"

Mycroft looked confused, his glance travelling from Mary to Anthea, before he smiled quite brightly. "My dear, you seem to have the wrong idea." At that he released a little laugh, and when Mary looked at him questioningly, he smiled. "Anthea is my assistant, not my lover."

"Oh, I just assumed" Mary muttered, blushing slightly at her inaccuracy. It was best to leave the deductions to the experts, she decided. "You are so compassionate with her"

"She is my best friend also" Mycroft admitted quickly, then sighed a strange sigh and turned to Mary. "That's strange, is it not. To say that your best friend is a woman in your employ?"

Mary shook her head quickly. She knew that Mycroft spent a lot of time working. John had often joked that the 'minor position in the government' was more than likely code for 'actually running the country'. It would make sense that his closest friend was the person he would spend the most time with, and Anthea, it seemed was it.

Mycroft was looking at her as though he expected a reassuring response, so she patted him on the back of the hand gently and asked "Do you talk about things other than work? Do you spend time together outside of work? Have common interests?"

Mycroft nodded as a response to each of her questions. Mary smiled. "Then it is not unusual"

There was a silence where both of them stared at Anthea, asleep uncomfortably on the chair in front of them.

"What does your wife think about you having a young, attractive female personal assistant?" Mary was the first to break the silence. Mycroft looked confusedly at her, and Mary realised she had put her foot in it, yet again. She assumed, quite incorrectly it seemed, that Mycroft was married. She tried another avenue and asked "Girlfriend?"

Mycroft shook his head, again with a soft chuckle. "I believe you have the wrong idea again my dear. You see, I am homosexual"

"Oh" Mary responded. Mycroft was gay. Mary wished she would just learn to keep her mouth shut, especially at times when she was too emotionally distressed to realise what it was that she was saying. "Oh, I am sorry Mycroft, I shouldn't have assumed."

This time, he patted her hand "It's quite alright dear, most people do assume that I am straight. For some reason, a gay man having such a high standing with in the government still makes some people uneasy"

"it shouldn't!" Mary said, outraged. If there was one thing that she hated, it was silly small mindedness. How could the preference of a man's life partner make any difference to the way he did his job? Mycroft was a well-educated, highly influential, powerful man who did his job exceptionally. Not to mention, as she had discovered in the last few days, he was an amazing friend to those in need. "It's common knowledge then?"

"To those I care about, yes, it is"

"Do you have a husband then? Boyfriend?" Mary blurted, and then realised that she still had no right to pry. She had no idea what had gotten into her in the last few days. Stress and lack of sleep were obviously her enemies, as she had been opening her mouth and inserting her foot in it all night. "Oh, I am sorry, my manners have seemed to have left me, I don't usually pry this much."

"No, single at the moment." Mycroft answered her. Honestly, he was fine speaking of his personal life with Mary, she was a lovely lady, and he was actually quite happy that she was asking. Not many people took a keen interest in his private life. "I was engaged once. About 7 years ago. To a lovely man. William, he was an architect, very influential, but very outgoing. A skill, I am sure you have noticed, the Holmes men struggle with. William got along with everyone. Even counted Sherlock as one of his friends."

Considering she had asked him all sorts of questions without offending him yet, she decided to go for one more. "What happened? Why didn't you marry?"

"July 7th, 2005." Mycroft whispered, and Mary bit her lip in horror. That date was one that the people of London wouldn't forget too quickly. Mycroft added the next bit of information, even though she had already assumed it - "he was killed in the London bombings"

"Oh, Mycroft, I am so sorry" Mary mumbled, wanting nothing more than to throw her arms around the man and hug him.

Mycroft played with the ring on his finger as he continued his story. "That is when I became close to Anthea. She was just a young intern at the time, working in my office. She was in the room when they informed me that William had been killed. She went above and beyond the call of her duties, holding me together that day, and for the days afterwards. People like me can't really take time off, even to mourn."

There was a long silence; however, it was not an awkward one.

Mycroft hardly spoke of William anymore. It was just too painful. Mycroft still missed William terribly. If he had just one wish, he would have gone back to when he was still alive and married him, not continued the 'we're engaged, but waiting' dance that they had been doing for two year. Mycroft would have taken every opportunity he had with William. Not investing so much into his career.

"Mary, will you do me one favour?"

Mary looked at him. She had been so lost in her own thoughts, of what it would be like to lose someone so suddenly, when Mycroft had broken the silence. She replied with all the enthusiasm she could muster. "Of course Mycroft"

Mycroft took her hand in his, and looking deeper into her eyes whispered "marry John as soon as you can. Don't worry about waiting for the opportune moment. Just do it. Don't worry about what other people think. Live life while you can, and share it with the man you love, because you never know when a bomb will drop."

Mary twisted her hand to wrap around his, sharing the tender touch with the man who was still in mourning for a man who died seven years ago.

Molly's hands travelled up, resting on Greg's shoulders, and she pushed him away gently. Greg, who had had his eyes closed gently in the kiss, snapped them open, stared at the woman in front of him, and realised what he had done. The apology was out of his mouth quicker than he could think.

"Oh, Molls, I am so sorry"

"It's alright" Molly responded, trying to organise her thoughts. When they were straightened out, she realised she what she had said. It was not alright. It was about a million miles away from alright. The hardest days of her life, and now she had to deal with Greg being childish also. It was not alright, she realised, and she was not going to let him get away with it. "No actually, it's not alright. What just happened Greg?"

"I kissed you"

"Well, I know that!" she sighed in frustration. "Greg…"

Greg practically fell over himself in his rush to apologise once again. "I am sorry Molls, I got caught up in a moment that I thought we were having. I just… I am an idiot"

"You are not an idiot" Molly responded, wrapping her jumper around her a little tighter. She suddenly felt very cold. "just, well, it's not really a good time, is it?"

"I thought it was the best time" Greg justified, running his hand through his greying hair. At her look of confusion, Greg looked at the ground. "I am about to lose you to Sherlock, again"

Molly saw red. Here was a man, older then she was, and he was acting as childish as a toddler from Henry's day care. It was time to put him in his place. "First off: 'Again'?, you've never lost me to Sherlock before. Second: I am not just something that can be won and lost by a kiss on a doorstep…"

Greg, realising his mistake, tried to interject. "I am sorry"

"I am not finished Lestrade." Molly snapped, her hand rose between them, stopping him from continuing. "And lastly, let's write you down as the king of shocking timing! My son is missing, my best friend is in hospital, his fiancé is falling apart, my prat of an ex…whatever is chucking a bigger temper tantrum then his son does and now you kiss me! You kissed me!"

"I know, I am just tired, thought it was a good idea at the time."

"Well, it wasn't" Molly sighed, and then saw the look on Greg's face. He looked hurt, and instantly Molly wished that she had gone with her first instinct to treat the situation with a little more respect. "Look, I am sorry… I don't mean to be harsh, but I have a lot on my plate right now…"

It seemed, however, that Greg was not ready to move away from the topic and accept her apology. The next question he asked made her seethe with anger yet again. "Would you have accepted the kiss if things were different? if Henry wasn't missing, John dying and he wasn't here?"

All lives, it seemed, were linked by Sherlock.

Molly took a deep breath and reminded him softly. "I always knew he was alive"

"So if he had of really died, I would have a chance?"

Molly threw her hands up in the air in frustration, fighting the temptation of escorting him by force back to his car. Why was he being like this? So difficult? "It is really unfair that you are asking me all this. You are being really selfish"

"I am sorry" Greg groaned, scrubbing his face with his hands and sitting on the front doorstep. Molly sighed and sat beside him, close enough to let him know that she was not actually angry at him, but far enough away that she was not leading him on. Greg looked at her when she sat. "Surely you've known how I've felt about you for the last few years though?"

"I've assumed" Molly admitted. She would have had to have been silly to not realise that Greg was in love with her. From the moment she had revealed to her friends that she was pregnant, through to the dinner they had had two weeks earlier, Molly had observed that he was attracted to her. It was time, she realised, to show her cards. "But Greg, even if Sherlock wasn't in the picture, I would find it hard to be with you. It's not just me that I have to think about now, its Henry too. Dating anyone is going to be tricky, because unless I'm one hundred per cent sure…"

"I understand" Greg replied, nodding whilst thinking of how hard it would be to have a relationship if he was the sole custody holder of his twin teen girls Ali and Sofia. "I have children too, remember"

Molly nodded, and an awkward silence fell between them.

"Just so we're clear…" Greg muttered after looking at his watch and glancing at his car, planning his getaway. "I have no chance?"

"Greg, please don't…"

"I am sorry" Greg smiled sadly and pulled Molly to her feet beside him. Molly stood and brushed off the back of her jeans. Greg looked to her, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Molly, everything I said about you being a great friend and mother, I meant it"

"I know you did" Molly replied, squeezing his hand in a strictly platonic manner. "A very big part of me wishes that things were different Greg. I know it's no comfort, but in another life…"

"A Sherlock-less one, maybe?"

She closed her eyes before opening them again, looking deep into his eyes and hoping that he was hearing, actually hearing what she had to say. "You are one of my dearest friends. I never would have gotten through all of this…not just the kidnapping, but the last two years of being a single mother, without you"

Greg pulled the woman into his arms and held her close for a minute, then, he released her, said a quick goodnight, and made his way to his car.

Molly turned, fumbling with the keys. Why was nothing going right in her life at this very moment? Everything, it seemed, was tearing at the seams. Everything she touched. Everything she even looked at.

Molly climbed the stairs to her apartment. She wanted nothing more than to go into her house, have a quick shower, and retreat to Henry's room, where she could look at his pictures and read his books and be with her son, the only man in her life who was reliable. The only man she would ever need.

At the landing outside her room she paused, looking at the door in front of her.

It stood ajar. Molly took a tentative step towards it, worried about entering her own apartment. The group had left in a rush earlier, was it possible that one of them had left it open?

Better to be safe than sorry, and knowing her luck over the last few days, she pulled her phone out of her pocket and dialled the number she always dialled in a crisis.

He answered after three rings. "Greg, are you still outside? I think someone has broken into my apartment."

Less than a minute later, Detective Inspector Lestrade powered up the stairs, two at a time. He got to the landing, looked at the door, then jumped into police action.

"Wait here" he muttered, pulling his gun from its holster and entering the apartment. He returned a minute later. "Yes, definitely robbed. Is it possible that you forgot to shut the door and this is just an isolated incident?"

"Mycroft was the last out" Molly replied, her hand on her forehead. When it rained, it seemed, is poured on her house. "He wouldn't have…"

Greg placed a calming hand on her shoulder, and despite everything that had been said and done between the two of them in the last 15 minutes, she found the gesture extremely comforting. "Ok, Molly, we are going to go in together, and you are going to tell me if anything is missing"

Scanning the living room, Molly crossed to the nearest bookshelf. "This photograph has been moved"

Greg noted that in his phone, realising that even he knew that the picture she referred to was on the wrong side of the room. "Ok, what else?"

"There are a few books missing off the shelf here" Molly muttered, her fingernail running down the spines of the books on the shelf "Maybe about 10 of them?"

Greg also took note of the missing books.

Molly paused, looking around the living room frantically. She searched under couch cushions, the couch itself, and then ran into Henry's room. Greg followed. "Sir Bunny is gone"

"Sir Bunny?" he asked. Molly looked as though she was about to cry.

"Yeah, the stuffed bunny that Mycroft gave Henry" Molly replied, still looking in his toy box and in his cupboard. "The one in a waistcoat, monocle and top hat. The one he goes to sleep with every night. Henry's favourite."

"Some books and a stuffed animal" Greg noted, then turned to Molly, confirming what she had only just realised herself "Its him"

Irene looked over her shoulder as she rushed down the street in the industrial part of town. It was a neighbourhood that she knew quite well. She knew a few people in this part of town…

Well, she knew what they liked.

She reached one hand into her bag while the other knocked on the front door. She wanted this transaction over with, the sooner the better. Irene didn't fear much, but she was petrified of what would be said if, no when, the others realised.

The door swung open after a few minutes of her knocking to reveal Jim, pyjama clad and obviously waiting for her before he could go to sleep.

"Hello gorgeous" he smiled, and despite herself, Irene smiled at him. "Got something for me?"

The hand came out of her bag to reveal a stack of children's books and a stuffed bunny rabbit which she handed over before pushing past Jim and into his house.

**P.S: Does someone know why my page breaks/dividers between scenes aren't coming up. Its flippin' frustrating!**


	13. Chapter 13

Burning Hearts

Chapter 13

**A/N: A little bit of Sherlock/Molly interaction in this chapter. I really hope it is not out of character. Please let me know if you think that it is. **

In the thirty seconds before she opened her eyes, Molly had managed to convince herself that it had all been a bad dream. Tucked in her bed, her blanket around her face, she pretended that it was any regular day, that she would only have a few minutes to herself before Henry started babbling in his room, announcing he was awake. Like every other day, she would get up, get their breakfast ready, and then get them ready for their day. They would hug, kiss and sing the 'get ready' song as they dressed. Then they would go to the park.

Sitting up and swinging her legs over the side, she stood and made it halfway to Henry's room before she realised she actually believed what she had just imagined.

She couldn't go on like this. She wanted her son back, and if Sherlock didn't hurry up about it, she was going to go out there and find him herself.

Nothing was surprising her anymore, so when she stood in Henry's doorway and realised the room was occupied, she hardly even blinked.

Slumped in the rocking chair that she had occupied so many times over the last few days, sleeping soundly, was Sherlock Holmes.

Molly continued to the kitchen, quickly made two cups of tea, and returned to Henry's room, leaving one for Sherlock for when he woke up.

Sherlock, it seemed, was already awake. He looked up at her and offered an unneeded explanation. "I needed to charge my phone."

"it's ok." Her eyes flicked to the object in his lap quickly, smiling softly. Open on Sherlock's lap was her photo album. Sherlock realised she had noticed what he was doing and closed the album carefully.

He had spent an hour before he had fallen asleep going through the photo album, taking in everything he could about the life he had missed over the last few years. The progression of his son's life through the years, milestones that he had missed. The parties and dinners, the play dates and trips to the park. The life that Molly had provided for Henry was obviously a happy one.

"You seem to be doing an amazing job" he complimented stiffly, placing the photo album on the small table beside him.

"It's been difficult without you…" she cut herself off quickly, hoping the admission would not push him away again. "Without a strong father figure, but I have a pretty great support team"

Sherlock nodded. The adage that it took a village was obviously the case when it came to Henry. Every photo in the album had shown a combination of John, Mary, Greg, Mrs Hudson and Mycroft. There was even one photograph that had shocked him. A picture of Henry, recent from the looks of it, in the arms of Mummy (or Grandmummy) Holmes. She looked so happy to be a grandparent.

By the time he came out of his thoughts, Molly was gone. He sensed what she was doing. Giving him space, pulling away from him intentionally. Self-preservation. He couldn't hold her decision to do so against her. He was doing exactly the same thing with his plan to leave London, was he not?

At the hospital he had said some hurtful things. Laughing at the idea that he would want to come home to her. Scoffing at her little girl hopes and dreams of them being an actual family for Henry. He hated himself for it, but hadn't been able to stop himself from saying it. As soon as the words had left his mouth, he had regretted them.

He didn't know how to handle what was going on in his mind. Staying was hurting people, but leaving would hurt himself, and Molly, and probably Henry eventually too.

Sherlock startled her as he entered the kitchen, placing his drained mug in the sink. She had had her back to the door, making toast, and had not expected Sherlock to follow her. They stood in silence, sharing the kitchen space, when a question startled her. "Do you believe me to be weak?"

"Weak?" She turned to him, watching as he reclined against the bench, his long legs out in front of him. "Sherlock? Why…?"

"I've made no headway on this case. I haven't found Henry yet" Sherlock raised his hands to just in front of his face, making a quick flicking motion with his fingers. Molly had witnessed Sherlock in the mind palace enough to know what was happening. Usually, when he disappeared into himself like this, it would be hours before he would speak again, so it came as a shock to Molly when he continued speaking almost immediately. "I left the hospital last night and realised I have no way of finding him, finding them. I have to wait for him to contact me, and that means he has the upper hand. I am not strong enough to pre-empt that. Then you just caught me sleeping"

"You are still a human being" Molly replied, fighting the temptation to stroke his arm reassuringly. As much as she wanted to physically comfort him, she didn't want to do anything to scare him off or make him angry again. "It is not weak to sleep; it has been a big week for all of us…"

"I never sleep on a case" he snapped, but Molly could tell by his tone that he was not angry at her, more disappointed in himself. "Especially on important ones."

"You are a million things, Sherlock Holmes" Molly began, unsure if the next words from her mouth would scare him away or make him angry yet again, but she needed to say it, to assure him. "But weak is not one of them."

Sherlock turned to look at her. Molly stared deeply into his eyes. Sherlock's gaze, however, was locked on her lips. Her heart began pounding uncomfortably in her chest. The mixed signals he was throwing at her were confusing. One minute he was yelling at her and then, moments like now, he was staring at her with an something unexplainable in his eyes.

Despite the warning tone in her mind, she reached for him at the same time that he reached for her. Their lips crashing together, waring with all the passion that they had held at bay during their separation. Their technique was a little rusty. It had been three years since they had last kissed. There was no denying it, however, that she loved every moment of the experience.

Sherlock's hands wrapped around her waist, pulling flush against his body in a swift motion. Molly's hands moved to his hair, her fingers twirling in the curls at the nape of his neck. It was so comfortable, so natural to be like this, to be together this way.

She knew this was a bad idea, a terrible idea, standing in her kitchen, wrapped in the arms of the world's only high functioning consulting detective. A man who since his return from the dead had given her hope and stolen it from her almost a million times.

There was no point trying to convince herself into thinking that she was not still in love with him. She had thought of him every single day of her life without him, hoping with the secret part of herself that she would get the opportunity to do this again. And now here she was.

Sherlock pushed her gently against the counter, his hands travelling up and down her sides, his mouth still devouring hers. He hadn't meant to do this. He hadn't meant to kiss her, and yet he was sure this was exactly what he needed. A woman, this woman in particular, who had supported him and believed in him no matter what, a woman who had risked her life and her career to help him, a woman who had provided him with something he was sire he would never have the opportunity to have, a son.

Molly was returning his kisses, kissing him back with an unsurmountable passion. Her arms were still wrapped around his neck, still wrapping in his hair, nails against his scalp.

"Sherlock, I…"

Sherlock raised a hand to her face, brushing his fingertips against her cheek. He looked into her eyes, mustered all the sincerity that he could find within himself, and whispered. "You render me incapable of thought, Molly Hooper. You have invaded my mind."

Molly leant forward, her lips reclaiming his and restarting the battle. That was as close as she was going to get to a declaration of love from him. Sherlock sighed into the passionate embrace.

Her hands travelled to his waist, pulling his shirt out of the back of his pants so she could slip her hands onto the warm skin of his lower back. It was just as she had remembered hard muscle and heated skin. Sherlock made an unusual sound at the contact, somewhere between a growl and a moan. Molly felt powerful.

While their lips were attached, Sherlock's mind was blissfully silent. It was an amazing feeling, and for the first time he was able to organise his thoughts on the case. He had lied; she didn't always render him incapable of thought. His mind was only scrambled, he realised, when he was not touching her. Molly had amazing powers over his mind, he realised.

Wrapping his hand in her hair, he pulled it gently, angling her to the side so he had access to her neck. When he sucked her pulse point, her nails scrapped across his back. She moaned at the feeling, and Sherlock had to fight temptation to drag her down the hall to her bedroom.

Guilt punched him in the gut then. Molly, whist a beautiful, sexy distraction, was taking his mind off of everything he should have been thinking about. Henry. John. Moriarty. He pulled away, pressed his head against her forehead. He fully intended to stop. To tell her he was going to go get her…their son back, and then they would work out what all 'this' was.

After one last kiss.

It had been three long years since he had touched anyone in this way. Not since the last time that he had been with Molly. There had never been anyone else. For him, it had been, and always would be, Molly Hooper.

Molly had undone three of his buttons before she even realised what her hands were doing. Her body was working against the screaming in her mind, the voice that was telling her that this was insane, she was going to give them space, she had needed to give them space. He was going to be leaving after Henry was back… Oh god, Henry.

She was undressing Sherlock in the kitchen, and her son was still missing.

Somewhere in the house, a phone went off, indicating the arrival of a text message. Sherlock pulled away from Molly, still holding her face in his hands. Their lips only centimetres away from each other, their breath catching as they tried to regain themselves. Their bodies were still wrapped around each other (at some point, Sherlock had lifted Molly up onto the counter, neither knew how and when that had happened.) They stayed like that for a few minutes, calming their raging bodies. Long enough to make the phone beep again, reminding them of the message that was still unread.

"I should" "It might be Mary"

The both laughed a little breathlessly, regaining themselves finally from the passionate interlude. Molly checked her phone, no unread messages. So she turned to Sherlock, who was taking his from the charger on the other side of the kitchen.

He turned to her, holding out her phone to allow her to see it. A picture message dominated the screen. Henry smiled up at her, holding Sir Bunny.

Sherlock snatched the phone back when another message came in. He dropped the phone on the table and raced further into the house to retrieve his coat, re-buttoning his shirt as he went.

Molly looked at the screen quickly before the back light disappeared.

_175 Crane Street, Industrial district. Come alone. _


	14. Chapter 14

**Burning Hearts**

**Chapter 14**

In the cab on the way to the industrial district, Sherlock finally got into the mind palace. This brain was still running on the cleansing adrenaline of Molly's kisses, allowing him to finally get in there and sort through his all the new information.

He bypassed the room labelled John and continued down the corridor in his mind. While he worried about his friend, he had a bigger fish to fry.

Although he itched to enter the series of rooms that held his favourite memories of Molly Hooper, he continued. Later, at the end of this ordeal, he would go and store this morning's encounter in there, but in this trip to the palace, there was only one thing he needed to work on.

A newly constructed door alongside Molly's had a bright blue nameplate on it that read Henry. He needed to construct the room better, to store everything that he knew about his son. The last time he had come face to face with Moriarty, it was his lack of knowledge of his son that had foiled him and gotten John shot. It was important that he never be in that situation again.

He had studied the photo album carefully, taking in all he could from the pictures there. Luckily Molly's photo album was also like a scrap book, with little notes about certain events and a pocket in the back for holding important documents. In there had been a copy of his birth certificate, and he dumped all the details he had learnt from that one document into his son's room in the palace.

Henry Hooper, born September 25th .Mother Molly Hooper, Pathologist. Father Sherlock Holmes, Private investigator (deceased). Born at St. Bartholomew's hospital. Delivered by Dr Craig, assisted by Nurse M. Morstan. 6 pound, 8 ounces. God parents Dr J Watson and Mrs J Hudson.

He also unloaded everything else he knew about his son. Avid Spaghetti eater. Enjoyed Goodnight Moon. Had a bunny in dressy clothes that he had named Sir Bunny. Had a preference for a blue and while stripped t-shirt (many of the pictures in the album had the same t-shirt present in them. Although, he argued, it was possible that it was Molly's preference, not his own). Owned red converse sneakers. Second birthday party ended with him covered in cake (he noticed that one off of Molly's phone)

Sherlock feared that that was not enough information. He only got through the last test of knowledge because john was with him. He never would have made the connection between Goodnight Moon and the clues at the eye without his friend. He was truly lost without his blogger.

Maybe he should have spent the morning talking about Henry with Molly, instead of kissing her senseless.

He had a plan, but he was unsure it would work. Sherlock intended on giving himself to Moriarty in exchange for Henry. Henry had been the pawn, the bargaining chip to get him back into the country and out of his 'afterlife'. It had worked, here Sherlock was. Henry wasn't needed anymore.

The cab pulled up outside of the requested address, and Sherlock paid the man. It was a large townhouse in what used to be an industrial part of town, and for some reason that Sherlock couldn't explain, it suited Jim.

He rang the doorbell, and Jim himself opened the door. "Sherlock, you made it. Do come in"

Sherlock pushed past his nemesis and into the townhouse. It was large and spacious, and the first thing he saw was a table with two glasses of whiskey on them.

"A drink, Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock, not usually one to drink, took the offered glass from him, but waited for Jim to take the first sip.

"It's not poisoned, if that's what you are thinking" Jim smiled. "I would never let it be over that easy"

Sherlock took a drink from the cup. "So Moriarty, I am sure you didn't invite me here for this."

"Well observed" he laughed, taking a seat at one end of the long dining table. Sherlock sat at the other end casually, waiting for the other man to continue. It was only then, as he really took a look around the place, that he noticed the gun on the table between them.

"So here's the deal Sherlock" Moriarty began, leaning back in his chair. "I am beginning to bore of your son. He is no way near as fun as hanging out with you. Sure, at first he was. Watching cartoons and reading him books, but man, your child is annoying! Always needing to be fed and cleaned"

"So return him to his mother"

"I was just about to say that!" Jim grinned. "We are still so in tune with each other, even after all these years. Yes, I am willing to return him to Dr Hooper, but first, you have to answer one question for me. Answer it correctly, and I'll return him tonight, incorrectly, and it looks like he will be staying with me until you can prove your worth as a father."

"One question and you'll return him?" Sherlock asked, a voice in his head yelling that this was all too easy. One question and Henry was safe. "I have your word"

"You have to get the question correct first, and I honestly am not sure you will"

Sherlock was also not sure that he would get it right either, but was not willing to outwardly admit it. Moriarty was betting that he would get it wrong. The lack of confidence in him was not unfounded. Sherlock had proven to himself earlier that his knowledge of his son was lacking, and that worried him.

"You won't be able to phone a friend. This isn't a television game show. It will all come down to you" Jim smiled, lifting his drink to his lips and taking another sip, the glass covering the already triumphant look on his face. Sherlock did the same, mainly to calm his nerves.

"You won't harm him if I get it wrong?" he asked, fishing for confirmation. He needed to know exactly what was at stake before he agreed to the terms and conditions.

"I promised no harm will come to Henry" Jim responded, then smiled wickedly, remembering how good it felt to give the shoot order for the bullet that hit Watson.

"I agree to your terms" Sherlock stated, hoping he was not giving away his obvious distress that it was highly likely that he would struggle.

Jim smiled. "Ok, the million dollar question: Sherlock, what is your son's middle name?"

Sherlock's heart began pumping in his chest. He didn't know. He had no idea. He ran through the mind palace quickly, bursting into Henry's room in the hypothetical building and riffling through the small amount of information that was there.

It all came down to what his son's middle name was. He had no idea.

He began deducing quickly, going through as much as he possibly could. Every little detail in the palace, not only about Henry, but about things the others and how they connected to Henry. Anything Henry related flashed in his mind and was dismissed just a quickly.

Moriarty was smiling. He could tell that Sherlock was struggling with the puzzle, he was going to win. Of course he was going to win. He was James Moriarty, he won every game he had ever played. "I am not going to give you all day Sherlock!"

Sherlock turned away from Jim, staring at the wall. He needed to think, to ignore the pressure of the room, to forget what was riding on the answer. He needed to sort thought it all, to sift out the important stuff and discard all of the useless rubbish.

What was his son's middle name?

"Five… Four…" Moriarty began, giving him a countdown.

An idea blossomed in Sherlock's mind.

"…Three…"

He could say it and possibly be right, or he could remain silent and never be given an opportunity like this, he had to just go for it.

"…Two…"

"Henry doesn't have a middle name" Sherlock said, loud but not confidently. "He has a middle initial only"

Moriarty's jaw dropped. Sherlock had worked it out.

The consulting criminal's look boosted the confidence of the consulting detective, who smirked. "I would wager it is the letter J. Am I right?"

Jim just nodded, stunned.

"You see, there is an overabundance of people in Henry's life with names starting with J. John, obviously. Julia Hudson, dear friend and godmother. Molly's own mother's name was Jennifer. My mother's name is June and my father was Jameson. My middle name is also Jameson. I would even assume that Mary Morstan's middle name starts with J. Yes, she strikes me as a Mary Jane." Sherlock pondered, still smirking through the explanation while Moriarty gaped at him. "Molly would have wanted to honour the people most important to her. She had already named our son Henry, her beloved father's name, but she wouldn't have wanted to offend anyone by choosing a particular middle name. The letter J covers many bases. My son does not have a middle name."

Moriarty couldn't believe that his plan had been thwarted like that. He had thought long and hard about that question, and was sure that it would be the one to stump him.

"So how will the boy be returned to Molly?" Sherlock asked, lifting his glass and draining it, hoping the alcohol would quell the adrenaline in his system. He had assumed, quite correctly, that he would not be the one to do the delivering of the child. He wasn't about to be set free any time soon, and he wasn't willing to let Jim out of his sight either.

"I'll have someone take him" Jim replied, then turned and yelled further into the house "Dear, be a honey and prepare our little guest for transport back to his mother's"

Sherlock's heart was pounding. He had done it. None of it was over, not by a long shot, but he had done it, he had successfully returned Henry to his mother. Henry was no longer at risk from this mad man. He had trusted that Moriarty would not have injured Henry, his bargaining chip, and now he had gotten what he was after, Henry was safe. Molly would be over the moon, and he only wished he had the opportunity to be there with her when he was returned.

They sat in silence, staring down the table at each other until almost ten minutes later; there was the sound of a door closing.

"Oh, am I glad I get to witness this" Moriarty laughed, rubbing his hands together in glee. Sherlock knew exactly what he meant. In just a few minutes, he would be setting eyes on his son, in the flesh, for the very first time.

From the very second he entered the room; Sherlock had his eyes locked on the boy. He had just been woken up, and was clutching his bunny with one hand as he rubbed his sleepy eyes with the other. Sherlock stood, his chair tumbling backwards. But he didn't care.

The youngster had brown curls, unruly, just like his. They were a shade lighter than his though, a combination of his shade of brunette and Molly's. His tired eyes were a storm of blue and green. Similar to his own. Even for a youngster, he had a very defined upper lip also.

He took a tentative step towards his son, who was being carried into the room. The boy looked at him, curious, and then buried his head into the crook of the neck of the person holding him.

It was only then that he glanced up at the face of the person, no, the woman that was holding him. "Irene?"

Irene Adler avoided his gaze. She had Henry in one arm and a small bag packed with books and clothes in the other. "I'll just…I'll just take him back to Molly's…"

"Irene!" Sherlock began. "What is going on?"

Moriarty chuckled. "Ignore a pretty woman long enough Sherlock and she'll go elsewhere to feel wanted"

Irene was staring at the floor. Sherlock could not believe what he was seeing. But he also didn't want to take anything for granted, jumping at the opportunity to get Henry home before Jim changed his mind. He stepped towards her and muttered "I don't care about what is going on here. We'll talk about this later. Take him to Molly's."

He then lowered his voice even more "Can I trust you?"

Irene's nod was so small, Sherlock only just caught it. She then dismissed herself without a word.

Heading to the car, Irene carefully placed Henry into his car seat. "Where we going, Miss Irene?"

Irene smiled at the young man, the smaller version of Sherlock Holmes that she was strapping into the car seat. "I am taking you home to mummy sweetie"

It was about lunch time and Molly felt useless. She was sitting on the couch in her living room, in the strangely silent apartment. Greg was at work, Mycroft, John and Mary still at the hospital, Sherlock was off with Moriarty.

God, she hoped everyone was going to be ok.

She fiddled with her phone, debating on whether or not to check in with Mary. It had been 12 hours. Surely John was out of surgery by now. It was odd that no one had told her anything yet. But she tried not to overthink it.

She was just about to slide open her phone and send a text when there was a knock at the front door. Molly crossed to it, and burst into tears when she saw what was on the other side.

Irene Adler stood on the landing, a sorry look on her face, and in her arms was her gorgeous son.

Molly pulled her son out of the other woman's arms and collapsed to the floor with him, holding him tightly and promising though her sobs that she was never going to let him go ever again.

**A/N: I couldn't deal with the separation between mother and son any more. **


	15. Chapter 15

Burning Hearts

Chapter 15

**A/N: guess who ended up in hospital for four days this week! (yes, I am opening with that so that you don't get too angry at me for not updating) Word of advice: whilst in a natural disaster clean up, don't wade through flood waters. Or if you do, don't cut your leg open! The cut on my leg was not deep or big, so I went to the first aid tent to get it looked at. Three days later – infection! Whooo! A few interesting things happen in this chapter, but I am not entirely happy with it. let me know what you think!**

The constant beeping of the heart rate monitor was beginning to send Mary crazy.

At first she loved the sound, because each beep was a steady reminder that John was still alive. Each blip reminded her that his heart was still beating for her, just as hers would forever beat for him. The constant noise, as regular as a clock ticking, was hope in this whole hellish nightmare.

But now it was frustrating. Each annoying little screech was another moment when he was laying in that bed, unable to answer her. eyes closed and pale, he looked like a corpse in front of her.

He had been in surgery for almost ten hours. In that time, she had managed to fall asleep against Mycroft's shoulder and get a few hours of rest. When the nurse shook them both awake to tell her that John was in the post-op ward, Mary had all but cheered.

Mycroft had excused himself then, and ten minutes later, the same nurse returned to let her know that they were moving John to a private room for his post-op care and recovery. Mary had grinned her thankyou to Mycroft, who shrugged with an 'it wasn't me' look on his face.

That was a few hours ago now. Mycroft had excused himself with a gentle hug. Something important had come up at the office that he had to deal with immediately. He had made Mary promise that she would call him on his private line the second something happened, either with John or with Henry.

That left her alone in John's hospital room with nothing but the beeping of the heart rate monitor to keep her company. The nurse, a woman that Mary actually recognised from work, had warned her against touching John, as he had so many drips and IVs in his arms, but after an hour of sitting there staring at him, she couldn't take it anymore and had gently wrapped her hand around his.

John was the love of her life, and the knowledge that she had come so close to losing him scared her every second of every day. She had waited 30 years for him to come into her life, and after only three years she had almost lost him.

Mycroft was right. Life was too short. As soon as John woke up, she was going to tell him that they were getting married the very minute he felt up to it. She didn't care if it was just down at city hall. Hell, she would sign the documents in this very hospital room if it meant that she could be Mrs. John Watson.

That was priority number one. Priority number two, she had decided, was to try and beat some sense into the consulting idiot who kept pushing the truest love of all out of his life. Sherlock Holmes didn't deserve Molly and Henry Hooper, but Molly wanted him more than anything. And what Molly thought she wanted to be happy, it was Mary's goal to make happen. Molly had given Mary her John, so now she had to ensure that Molly got what she wanted.

Step three, to get Mycroft out of his office more often. Maybe even encourage him to go on dates or have a social life. Actually, Mary smiled; it would be easier to move that to number four, after world peace. (She wondered briefly if world peace would be what it took to get the older Holmes brother out of his office more often.)

Her phone beeped in her handbag. Mary reached for it, but could not get to it. She was sure that it would have looked comical to anyone passing, but she twisted and pulled the bag towards her with her foot, unwilling to let go of John's hand.

_Sherlock did it. Henry is back. Praise whoever is listening! Henry is back – MH_

Tears welled in Mary's eyes as she read the message two more times. Sherlock had returned Henry to Molly. There was hope for him yet.

She twisted again to single-handedly type a reply when she heard a croaking noise. Mary almost broke her neck turning to look at John. He looked quiet and peaceful, so she assumed that she had dreamt it.

_That's fantastic Molls, I am so – _

"Mary?" the name was groaned, barely louder than a whisper. Mary turned to John, whose eyes were slowly opening.

Her phone was dropped carelessly to the ground as she ignored Molly's good news. She had good news of her own. John was waking up!

Sherlock drained the rest of his glass of whiskey and looked down the table at his arch nemesis. Jim leaned back casually, a wicked smile on his face. "So, that was your son"

Sherlock didn't say anything. Hearing Moriarty talking about Henry was making his stomach churn. In an uncomfortable, sentimental way. He wanted to launch himself down the table and beat the man senseless.

"He looks just like you Sherlock" Jim replied, spinning the gun on the table. Sherlock steepled his hands and tried to calm himself. "Of course, he has great qualities from his mother. I daresay he got his patience from her"

"That's enough Jim" the uncomfortable feeling in his gut became a stab at the mention of Molly. This man…the spider was talking about his family and he would not have it!

"I've hit a nerve" Jim grinned.

"You're boring me" Sherlock replied, knowing that the fact that he was not finding this as interesting as his nemesis was would piss him off immensely.

"Come now, don't be like that." Jim said, hiding his hurt. "I just want to catch up a bit."

Sherlock stood to leave. "If you are not intending on making this worth my while, I am going to go and make sure that the boy has been returned to his mother"

"No trust in Irene?" Moriarty smiled. "I guess that is understandable. She is a double agent, after all. Always has been. I've known her for a long time…" he paused, smirking to himself "Well, I've known what she likes"

Sherlock sat again. "So she was telling you of my whereabouts this whole time?"

"Not entirely" Jim began. "I worked out most of it myself. I am smarter then I look, you know"

"I have no doubt" Sherlock replied, and Jim looked momentarily confused as he realised that he had been insulted.

"I have a question for you Sherlock" Jim began, and Sherlock leant back, gesturing for the other man to continue "You have to promise to answer honestly"

Sherlock nodded.

"When did you realise I was alive?"

Sherlock instantly wished he had not promised to tell the truth, because the truth, in this instance, made him look foolish. "When did I realise? When my brother called me to inform me that you had kidnapped Henry"

Jim roared with laughter, clapping his hands a few times. "Excellent"

"I saw you put a bullet through your brain" Sherlock replied evenly, dismissing the statement.

"Smoke and mirrors, much like your suicide, it seems" Jim replied.

"Oh yes" Sherlock smiled. "You are intrigued by my death. I remember now. Does it kill you that you haven't worked it out?"

"Yes" Jim whinged. Now it was time for Sherlock to laugh.

Jim moved quite suddenly, grabbing the gun from the table between them, cocking it, and holding it in front of him. "Don't laugh at me Sherlock!"

Sherlock paused. He had stared down the barrel of a gun more times than the average 35 year old, but this was the first time that he had considered what would happen if he was to actually be killed. The first time he had ever considered how the others would feel.

"Even if it would end our little game, you know I will kill you"

"Not like you to get your hands dirty" Sherlock replied, raising an eyebrow.

"Ah, yes, that is true." Jim replied, uncocking the gun and returning it to the table. "But you see, all my snipers are otherwise disposed"

"That's one label for a prison sentence" Sherlock replied.

"That's what alerted me to you still being alive" Jim informed him. "Within a week of the incident, Sebastian Moran called me from prison. His one phone call. Only took me one phone call to get him out. You really should have saved your breath"

"How do you foresee this ending?" Sherlock asked suddenly. He was beginning to tire of the endless talking around in circles. He remembered Moriarty to be a lot more interesting than this, laying plans and tricks to challenge him. All this talking was beginning to grate on him.

"With one of us, more than likely you, dead" Moriarty replied.

"If you say so" Sherlock replied and reached into his coat, revealing John's handgun.

In a quick move, Moriarty held out his gun, and they were both staring down the barrel of their potential death.

A shot rang out in the building. Sherlock Holmes dropped to the ground, rolled under the table, and watched as Jim's feet retreated towards the stairs and disappeared somewhere into the house.

Panting, he tried to compose himself. He tried to focus. Jim was still out there, and both were still armed. But there was something distracting him. A weird feeling he had never experienced before. A warmth spreading from his shoulder.

He raised his hand, pulling it away to see his fingers coated with blood.

Jim Moriarty, that bastard, had actually shot him!


	16. Chapter 16

**Burning Hearts**

**Chapter 16**

Molly had been staring at Henry all morning. When he had first been returned home to her, she had sat in the entry way, rocking and crying, whispering to him that everything was ok now and that she would never let him out of her sight again. They had been like that for almost ten minutes before her mind jumped into frightened parent mode once more. Should she take him to Barts? What if he was injured? Should she get him looked at? John was his Doctor and Molly wasn't sure she trusted anyone else right now.

Still sitting awkwardly on the floor, Molly texted Mary. Henry looked up at his mother with questioning eyes. His mum usually didn't usually use her phone when they were sharing a hug, unless it was to take a picture of the two of them. "Mumma?"

"Lots of people have missed you sweetie" Molly replied, returning her phone to her pocket. "I just needed to tell Aunt Mary and Uncle John you are ok"

Molly hesitated before speaking of John. She had a dilemma on her hands, it seemed. How did you tell a young child that a man he loved more than anyone else had been shot and was clinging to life in hospital, especially when the child was recovering from the trauma of being kidnapped?

Molly changed tactic, steering the conversation away from John. "How about a bath, yeah?"

Henry looked relieved and nodded enthusiastically. Molly stood with him and took him into her room where she began to undress Henry, covertly checking for bruises or cuts, putting her own medical training to work on him. While she was working, a voice from the door startled her.

"No one harmed him" Irene began.

Molly ignored her, getting her son down to his shorts before standing and turning to where the woman was standing in the doorway. She looked so different in what she was wearing. Gone was the expensive designer dresses she had been parading around in, replaced by jeans and a hoodie. It made the dominatrix look almost human.

"Thank you for returning him" Molly said in a level tone, working to not alert Henry to the verbal altercation that was about to take place. "However, I get the impression you were involved in more than just the return of my son?"

Irene went to respond, but Molly silenced her. Clearly it was a rhetorical question.

"I invite you to stay to the confines of your room until either Detective Inspector Lestrade" Irene blanched at the law man's name "Or Sherlock" and at that name she went deathly pale, "come to talk to you"

Irene recognised the mercy in Molly's words and turned on her heel, entering the guest bedroom. Molly then plastered on a smile and returned to her son.

She spent extra time bathing him. Scrubbing his skin and washing his hair twice. Henry didn't seem to mind. Then she just watched as he played. It wasn't until he complained that the water was getting cold that she took him from the tub.

They made a small lunch together of sandwiches. As they sat down to eat them at the kitchen table, Henry asked if Miss Irene was hungry. Molly shrugged but allowed her son to take one of the left over plates down the hall and leave it outside the guest bedroom. She was training him to be too nice it seemed.

They had played for a little bit after lunch, and when Greg came over to talk to Irene, they had watched a movie (Molly was afraid their conversation would get heated and had put on Cars, Henry's favourite, to distract him) Halfway through the movie, Henry had fallen asleep. Molly was pleased, as it meant that he wouldn't have to see Greg leading Irene away in handcuffs.

Molly had been watching him sleep for the longest time. She knew she should wake him, this nap would be killing any chance he had for sleeping later, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. Not today.

The door was thrown open, and Molly looked up at the intruder, her hand instinctively reaching for Henry.

She relaxed when she saw that it was just Sherlock.

Molly was on her feet in an instant, throwing herself at the consulting detective. She knew that he probably wouldn't appreciate the display of affection, but that was the last thing on her mind as she wrapped her arms around his neck and began kissing his cheek "You are an amazing man. You are clever and wonderful and you got him back for me, thank you, thank you."

She heard him give a sharp intake of breath and pulled away, about to apologise for the sentiment, when she noticed something dark staining his coat sleeve. She reached to touch it, only to have him pull the limb away quickly. "Sherlock?"

"I've been shot Molly"

Molly let out a sob and raised her hand to her mouth. "What? Let me see"

Sherlock went to shrug out of his coat, stopping when he noticed that Henry was still asleep on the couch. He instead made his way down the hallway to her room, the silently crying woman in his wake. He didn't want to risk Henry waking up and seeing something as scaring as a gun shot wound.

He shrugged off his coat once he got there. His white button down was soaked with blood. Molly slipped into Doctor mode once more. In her training, she had done some work in the emergency room, and the adrenaline began to fuel what she was doing. She ran to the first aid kit and brought it back to him. By then he had his shirt off.

"Sherlock" she began, investigating the wound closely. There was lots of blood, definitely, but all it was hiding was a small graze on his arm. When he had said he had been shot, she had expected worse, something on the same scale as John's wound. But this, this was pitiful compared to that. "That's a graze!"

"So" Sherlock replied. "It's still a wound from a gunshot"

Molly clamed and got out everything she would need to clean up the mess that was Sherlock's arm. When all the blood had been washed away and the true nature of his injury revealed, she knew exactly what she was working with. A graze that probably didn't need stitches and an over dramatic man child.

He stared ahead as she worked on him, cleaning and covering with creams. The cut wasn't deep, but it was wide, but it was nothing to worry about. He would just have to work on keeping it clean and not doing anything strenuous with that arm, which would be difficult considering he was still in the middle of a case.

"Henry has a scar on his arm, in almost the exact same place." Molly stated as she opened up a package of sterile gauze. Usually, Sherlock would tell people around him to not bother with small talk, but the combination of the subject and the fact that it was Molly speaking made him want to listen.

"He fell at the park once. Landed on a piece of bottle, cut his arm open. Nothing bad, but the scar, its in almost exactly the same place." She informed him. That stomach twist he had felt over the last few days was back again.

Molly looked at him and misinterpreted the look on his face. "Sorry, I shouldn't bore you…"

"No" Sherlock said before throwing caution to the wind and saying "Please. He's…he's my son too"

Molly paused awkwardly. "Will he still continue to be your son when you leave again?"

Sherlock stared at the wall in front of him. He didn't know how to answer that. He wanted to leave, in order to ensure everyone's safety, but a big part of him wanted to take Molly and Henry with him. Did that mean that he wanted to stay? Did that mean he wanted to be in a family situation with them? Or did he just want to stay in London so he could see them every now and then? How much time did he want to be with them? And how would that impact his work? Did that mean this he was becoming the weak, sentimental man that he feared?

"I am still not a man capable of love, Molly"

"Bullshit" she said with so much conviction it made Sherlock recoil. "You came back to save a boy you didn't even know just because he was your son, proving some sort of love. Just yesterday you stood in the hospital and begged me to tell you what would save John, your best friend. You hugged Mycroft when you returned. That's love. It may be your own unique way of showing it, but you love us all."

Sherlock continued to stare at the wall, unable to look anywhere else. His focus unwavering, as though the answer would flash up there at any moment.

"Would it change your mind if I asked you not to leave?"

Sherlock turned to Molly, as the voice he had heard startled her. The strong, changed Molly he had become accustomed to since his return was gone, and in her place was the old Molly. The Molly that stuttered through conversations and couldn't look him in the eye. The Molly who was easily manipulated for even the slightest shred of attention. The love sick puppy.

He wanted to simultaneously berate her and hold her in his arms to keep her safe. He didn't understand anything that was going on.

"I…" he began, only to be cut off by a ringing telephone from somewhere in the house. Molly stood and moved into the living room to answer the phone, leaving him on his own.

The door to Molly's room opened less than a minute later, and he assumed it was just Molly returning and did not turn around. The wall still held his gaze, until he felt something on his knee. A tiny little hand.

Sherlock looked down. Henry was staring back at him.

"Hello" Sherlock began awkwardly. He was not good at talking to children. Henry just stared back at him, and it looked as though the young boy was memorising the face before him. Sherlock decided that was a good plan, and took in the boy also.

Soon Sherlock found himself sitting on the floor, looking at the boy in front of him, who was absentmindedly playing with Molly's comforter while looking at him. Physically they were similar, with the hair and the eyes, but he could not determine whether or not they were similar in any other way.

It was not use. It was almost impossible to deduce a child.

"He's just like you" Molly's voice in the doorway made him jump a little. She came further into the room, lying across her bed face down so that she could look at where the her two men were sitting on the floor. "Inquisitive, curious, clever… and that is not just a biased mother talking."

"Mumma" Henry began, and Molly looked at her son, encouraging him to continue with her non-verbals. Henry pointed at Sherlock and said "Dadda?"

Molly looked to Sherlock. "I am not going to introduce you to him as his father unless you are staying. Really staying. Staying in his life, I mean."

Sherlock hesitated, so Molly jumped up, swooped down to pick up a now laughing Henry, and announced. "Uncle John wants us to go visit him, little man! Would you like that?"

Sherlock sat in the back of the cab with Henry and Molly. Henry seemed to have forgotten his previous question as he was being spoken to by Molly.

"Uncle John is in the hospital" Molly was telling him. "He was in a little bit of an accident while you were gone. He will be ok, but he may look like he is sick. We won't be able to jump all over him like we normally do, ok? But we are going to wish him well."

While listening to the speech, Sherlock noticed something. Henry's shoe, that had been thrown on in a haste to get to John, was untied. He reached down, tying the lace for him while he was otherwise occupied.

Molly however, noticed the movement.

John's private room was packed. Mary sat in the chair she had barely vacated. Mycroft was in a chair on the other side of the bed, talking quietly to John, who still looked groggy and out of it, but was less pale then before. Mrs Hudson was at the end of the bed, looking as though she had only just stopped crying.

When Henry entered, he didn't know who to run to first. Uncle John, Uncle Mycroft, Aunt Mary and Mrs. Hudson, four of his favourite people, were all in the room. He had missed them all. He wanted to hug each one of them and talk to them all. Overwhelmed, however, he just began crying.

"Hey" John smiled weakly from his bed. "Hey, it's not as bad as all that"

Henry kept crying but walked right up to the edge of the bed on Mycroft's side. There were machines beeping everywhere, and Uncle John was in his bed, a big white bandage on his chest.

Mycroft scooped the boy up so that he was level with John's face. Henry didn't like seeing Uncle John looking like this so he turned and buried his face in Uncle Mycroft's shirt.

Molly and Mary embraced and then Molly pressed a kiss to John's forehead. He smiled weakly as Molly said "Well, an exciting day all round"

After a few more minutes of conversation (in which Henry had finally made it to hugging everyone in the room and then back to Mycroft) Henry reached out a hand and placed it gently on John's. John, who had been listening to Molly fill them in on Greg's arrest of Irene, turned his head at the touch.

"What's up, little man?" John asked, as brightly as he could manage.

Henry just looked into the older man's eyes and said "I love you, Uncle John"

Sherlock slipped out of the hospital room. His son had said the words that he himself had never told anyone. His son was a normal, healthy, clever child who cold love and be loved by others. He wasn't doomed to the sad and hollow childhood he had endured, where he was teased for being different and pushed away because he couldn't have normal relationships. Henry was different, and that was Molly's influence.

Molly was beside him in the hall in a heartbeat. "I thought you were going to walk out, like last time"

"I needed air" Sherlock replied, leaning against the wall to show that he would not be going anywhere. Molly smiled a little to herself.

"I can only imagine how hard all this is for you Sherlock. Returning was hard enough – but to a son, an arch nemesis, a friend who almost died, and then me pressuring you…"

He cut her off "You're not pressuring me"

"Being a mother has made me fierce" Molly stated, much as he had previously with no apology in her voice. "And no one will ever hurt my son again, including you. I am just trying to do what's best for him"

"What about what's best for you?"

"He is what's best for me" Molly replied selflessly, making Sherlock feel bad about the whole situation. He had left for the greater good, and it had changed everything about Molly. He was responsible for all of this.

He reached out and placed his hand on her shoulder in what he hoped came across as a comforting manner. He wanted to apologise, he wanted to thank her, he wanted to commiserate with her, he wanted to make all her dreams come true and he wanted to run still. He had never been so confused in his life. Why would people voluntarily fall in love? This was terrible.

"Molly Hooper, I…"

There were footsteps in the hall, and both looked towards them. Molly took a panicked step towards Sherlock, who stood in front of her, unsurprised to see Jim Moriarty strolling down the hall towards them.

"Sherlock, you left without saying goodbye"

"You shot me" came Sherlock's reply.

Jim opened his suit to reveal the gun was still on his person. "Do as I ask or I'll do it again. And this time, it won't be an accidental misfire, nor will it be a graze"

Sherlock nodded, taking a step forward. "I assume we are going somewhere?"

"Yes, we are" Moriarty replied. "And this time, Dr Hooper will join us"

**A/N: don't ask how he got away from Jim's in the first place. Let's just assume that he had enough time to sneak away and head to Molly for medical attention. CoughBlatantPlotholeCough**


	17. Chapter 17

**Burning Hearts**

**Chapter 17**

Sherlock placed his hand on the small of Molly's back, leading her down the hallway towards the exit of the hospital. Jim was walking behind them, his hand tucked into his coat and on the butt of his gun. Molly didn't let herself think about Sherlock's gesture, instead allowing herself to feel comforted by the hand. No matter how scared she felt, she was with Sherlock, and he would not let her down.

Molly was shaking slightly. Sherlock took a step closer to her and whispered out of the side of his mouth. "You are fierce, remember"

The reminder did nothing to calm her nerves, but she nodded anyway.

Jim ushered them into the parking lot and into the back seat of the waiting sedan. Molly found herself squashed between Sherlock and Jim, so she angled herself towards the detective, repulsed by the man on her other side. Sherlock, who was staring out the window, did not ask her to move away from him, realising that Molly, the most sentimental being he knew needed comfort. He pressed his knee against hers, letting her know that he was there. He hoped it was a reassuring gesture. He had never had to physically reassure someone before.

They drove in silence for half an hour before reaching their destination. Jim opened his door as someone, more than likely their driver opened Sherlock's. Sherlock turned to help Molly out of the car, turning just in time to see Jim grab Molly around the waist and pull her out the opposite side.

The crazed criminal held Molly to his chest, the barrel of the gun against her temple.

"Moriarty, you promised me no harm would come to her or Henry" he yelled, wishing he had the forethought to have brought John's gun with him this time. When they had left Molly's earlier, it had been to visit John in hospital, and that didn't seem like the place to be armed. "Release her"

"No" Jim replied. "Don't think so"

Sherlock made a move towards them, but Moriarty cocked the gun, stopping him in his tracks.

Molly would not let herself cry, not in the arms of a mad man. She locked eyes on Sherlock, and even though he was not looking at her, his presence was a comfort, as it reminded her of Henry. She had told henry to be a brave boy, so now she pictured her son saying similar things to her. Be brave Mumma. Don't cause trouble Mumma. Come home in one piece Mumma.

Sherlock glanced around, taking in everything about the non-descript parking garage that he was standing in. There had to be something, anything, he could use to save Molly. Something to draw Jim's attention away, distracting him. Something that Sherlock could improvise a weapon out of. Something that could be used to get Molly out of his arms so that he could just walk on over there and hit the criminal, putting his extensive boxing practice to work.

There was nothing. Moriarty looked calm and composed also, so even the slightest movement from him would result in a bullet in Molly's brainpan, and there was no way he was going to allow that. Not his Molly.

His Molly was saying something. Sherlock looked at her, confused. He was off in his own world of trying to find the answer that he didn't realise what was happening right in front of him. Molly had said something that had obviously infuriated Jim. Molly had been thrown to the ground and Moriarty now stood over her. Molly screamed again.

"Sherlock, behind you"

And that's when the world went black.

The first thing he noticed as he woke up was that it felt like his arm was on fire. He looked to the arm in question to see a shoe pressed against his graze. He saw his shirt soaked with blood from where Molly's exceptional doctoring skills had patched him up.

His gaze travelled upwards, to the owner of the polished shoe and expensive pants. There was no surprise that Jim was staring down at him.

"Where's Molly?"

"I thought that would be the first question out of your mouth. Didn't I say it would be?" Jim asked, and from the other side of the room, a man stood. He stood stock still, with the same military grace Sherlock had often seen from John.

"Moran"

"Mr. Holmes" Sebastian Moran greeted coldly. So it was true, Jim had gotten his second of command off of the multiple murder charges that Sherlock had put him away for.

"I hope you don't mind that I invited Moran over to play. Although, this puts me in a predicament" Jim began, taking his foot off of Sherlock's bleeding arm and crouching down beside him. "I don't know who to play with first. You see, Sebastian over there, rightly so, has some unfinished business with you. He wants a few minutes alone with you to get…reacquainted. So here's my dilemma. Do I leave you with Seb and go have fun with your girlfriend? Or do I send Seb to entertain Dr Hooper."

There was no lesser of the two evils in the room. He knew firsthand what Moriarty was capable of, but the files he had read about Sebastian Moran had made him shudder more than once. Ex-military. Dishonourably discharged for torturing fellow soldiers. Returned to civilian life as a gun for hire, working for companies that would not be described as above board before falling into the Moriarty crime syndicate and rising through the ranks due to his highly marketable skills.

Jim started laughing, the maniacal laugh that scared almost everyone who heard it. "I am just kidding"

Sherlock couldn't help but feel relieved.

"I've already had my fun with the pretty doctor" Jim grinned, then held his hand out to present something for Sherlock's inspection.

A clump of blood covered hair hung from his hand. "She just wouldn't stop struggling…"

Sherlock jumped to his feet, powered by rage, and grabbed Moriarty by the throat, pushing him against the wall with such force that his feet dangled off of the floor. Although he was being choked, Jim laughed.

Sherlock felt himself being put into a strangle hold. Jim rubbed his neck and smiled sickly at the restricted consulting detective, who was being lowered to his knees by Moran. Jim crouched again to look the other man in the eyes.

"She's not dead." Jim informed him, looking at his watch. "Well, she shouldn't be yet. The rate of her blood loss was consistent yet not life threatening"

Sherlock made another struggle to attack Jim, so Sebastian tightened his grip. Sherlock began to feel woozy.

"I've hidden her" Jim announced, in the tone that suggested another great game was about to commence. "And you have to try and find her. A game of hide and seek"

Sebastian let him go, and he crumpled to the ground, regaining his breathing and rubbing his neck. "You were unconscious for about 40 minutes, wouldn't you say Seb?"

The larger mercenary nodded.

"So, she could be anywhere." Jim replied. "Happy hunting."

Sherlock watched as the two men retreated from the parking garage. He had to go through the details. Molly was missing, hidden. The use of that word, hidden, was important. Moriarty used it deliberately. She was injured. Bleeding, but the extent of the wound was unknown. She was not at risk of bleeding out, and she was a doctor, so it was possible that she could do a little work on herself to extend that time (not that he was going to be taking his time about the process). He had ripped a chunk of her hair out and it was bloodied. So it was possible she had a head injury.

Sherlock crawled along the ground to where Jim had discarded her hair and picked it up. There was about half of her generous ponytail there and it was in fact covered in blood. He investigated the ends. One end neatly chopped from Molly's most recent hair cut. The other end then, if it had been pulled from her head, would…

Sherlock blanched, feeling bile rising in his throat. He steadied himself and shook his head.

"Not Molly" he whispered to himself, escaping quickly to the mind palace and locking off Molly's section. He needed to separate this. To separate the clump of hair and the panic he was feeling away from Molly. He took a deep breath and steadied himself.

The subject's hair, if removed by force directly from the scalp, would have skin tags and pieces of flesh attached to it. He raised the hair to his eyes. It was cleanly cut, freshly sliced, as though a blade of some description had been pulled through it.

It was not ripped from her scalp, but then again, there had been a knife involved.

40 minutes. Take away the time it would have taken for Moriarty to travel with Moll…the subject, torture the subject, and return to the parking garage. That didn't really give him much to work with. He didn't even really know where he was. Sherlock crossed to the edge of the parking garage.

They were approximately 30 minutes away from the hospital. The glass had been so tinted in the car that he hadn't really taken in the direction or landmarks that he had passed. He saw them, but didn't really observe.

He didn't have a gun, he didn't take in where they were going, he didn't pay attention to the important details and he had passed out, allowing himself to be separated from Molly.

Some detective he was!

**A/N: Don't doubt yourself Sherlock!**


	18. Chapter 18

**Burning Hearts**

**Chapter 18**

Sherlock's watched as he held the guardrail of the parking garage with such intensity that his knuckles turned white. Never in his 35 year life had he described himself as foolish, but that was how he felt right now. Foolish. He was a fool.

He had forgotten the fundamental rule that he preached to all that would listen (and even those who wouldn't). Observe what you are seeing. He hadn't taken anything in while he had been captive in the back of the car. He had been distracted and had not followed the scenery.

He looked out into the gathering darkness. He couldn't tell where he was from landmarks either. His eyes were straining to take in anything, even the slightest little detail that would help him. He assumed that the lights in the distance were the commercial district and scanned his brain for more information about where that may leave him. From that, he would be able to work out where a good hiding spot for Molly would have been.

He closed his eyes to aid his calculations, trying to get into the head of James Moriarty, criminal mastermind. If the situations were reversed, and he was trying to make Jim suffer by kidnapping someone that he had a sentimental attachment to, where would he take them? He would disorient them first. Probably by beating them… Sherlock made his brain stop that line of enquiry.

Footsteps behind him drew him abruptly from his thoughts. Sherlock focused his attention on them, taking in their sound to deduce who they belonged to. The owner of the footsteps paused close to his back, and Sherlock decided it was safe to turn around.

Before him stood Irene Adler, dressed in a crisp white form fitting dress. This was the Irene Adler that he remembered, the same Irene he had met all those years ago. He took her in, and realised that she was holding a gun. "Sherlock"

Sherlock looked the woman in the eyes. "I heard you were arrested"

"That little puppy of yours, Lestrade, he tried" Irene admitted, jerking the gun a little. Sherlock looked down at the weapon in her hand.

She was holding the barrel, extending the grip out to him. She was intending for him to take it, obviously. "What's the catch?"

"No catch" Irene mumbled, suddenly unable to look him in the eye. Sherlock took the gun grip in his hands, and both held the weapon for a split second before Irene released it. "I want to make amends"

"For…"

"You know what for" Irene mumbled, ashamed. She straightened her skirt in a nervous gesture.

"I want to hear you say it Irene" Sherlock replied, tucking the gun safely into his pants and taking a half step towards her, invading her personal space. When he still would not look at her, he placed his finger under her chin, raising it until their gaze locked. "Say the words"

"For orchestrating the kidnapping of your son" she said heavily, a tear rolling down her cheek. She closed her eyes in shame.

"Why?"

"My reason is selfish and ridiculous in natures" she admitted, searching her mind for a word that he would understand. A small smirk graced her lips when she found it. "Sentiment"

"You thought that kidnapping my son would make me love you?" Sherlock asked, incredulous.

"I thought that kidnapping your son would make Moriarty love me" came the shocking reply. Sherlock stepped away. Although he had never grown attached to the woman before him, he had thought that he had known everything about her. It seemed she was still good at hiding herself from his deductions, for he had never realised that she had shifted her emotional attachments away from himself and onto the mad man at the centre of their predicament. "What he said the other day was honest. Ignore a woman long enough Sherlock, and she will go elsewhere for attention. I wanted the attention, your attention, and when you wouldn't give it to me; I went for the next best thing. Power. I wanted power. I went to the only man who I knew wanted you as much as I did. Jim Moriarty. He paid attention to me…"

"I was paying attention to you" Sherlock replied. "You were my travel companion"

Irene laughed bitterly. "Indeed, your travel companion. You took me with you because I had a certain set of skills"

Sherlock knew that there was no point in denying that. He had taken the dominatrix with him on his mission because he knew that she would be able to infiltrate the group quicker than he could. Her feminine wiles would be no match for the group of male criminals.

She broke into his thoughts by continuing. "When I say I wanted attention from you… I wanted the same attention that you pay to Dr Hooper… I wanted you to love me as much as you loved her"

There must have been a look of shock on Sherlock's face, as Irene laughed bitterly again and continued "the way you would study her photograph Sherlock, I am surprised it took you so long to realise you loved her. The all-knowing Sherlock Holmes was obviously clueless on that one."

Sherlock turned away from the woman and went back to staring out over the land around them, back to searching for any clues as to where Molly could be. "Aim here to help."

Sherlock ignored her.

"Sherlock, please. I know where he is keeping her. I am sorry for what I did to Henry, but…" she hesitated. "Let me make it right. I'll take you to her"

Sherlock nodded turning and allowing her to lead the way. They crossed the parking lot to a fire escape in the far corner, then entered the stairwell and continued down the stairs. He sorted through all of the new information, trying to make sense of it all.

Irene had been feeding information to Jim for god knows how long. No wonder for a while there it felt like the people he had been pursuing where steps ahead. Did that mean all his work for the last few years had been undone due to the insider information? If Jim had gotten Sebastian and Irene out of prison so quickly, then did that mean all of the others he had put away over the last few years were also out again?

He couldn't believe he had trusted her. He should have stayed alone in the matter. Alone, as he had said, kept him safe. He hesitated – if he should never have trusted her to begin with, then why did he trust her now?

Two flights down, he paused. She paused, a few steps below, and looked back up at him. "How do I know I can trust you?"

Irene looked at him with all the sincerity she could muster. "You can Sherlock"

"I am not so sure" he replied, thinking. "Your plans often required you working against me, and you just admitted that for months you sold me out to Moriarty, even using a helpless infant in your bidding. So I ask you again, why should I trust you?"

Irene hesitated just long enough to make Sherlock realise what was going on. He turned on his heel and ran back up the stairs.

"Sherlock wait" was called at his retreating back.

He barged through the fire escape door and back onto the floor of the parking garage, hesitating only slightly once there. Foolish. He really was being foolish today. If his hunch was correct, and they more than likely were, Irene was trying to lead him further away from Molly, not closer.

He glanced around. There was only one possible place she could be hidden in this space.

He popped the boot on the sedan that they had earlier travelled in and let it rise slowly. His anticipation saved him, as Molly, who had been stuffed in there, swung at him with a tire iron. Sherlock caught her arm and managed to state "Molly, it's me"

Molly looked up at him, recognising him through her fear. They stared at each other momentarily, Sherlock trying not to look disgusted at the state of her face. She had cut on her cheek and multiple bruises forming. The consulting criminal had had fun with her indeed. Molly blinked twice under his intense scrutiny before throwing her arms around his neck. Instinctively, his arms circled her waist, and he pulled her from the car boot. "I thought I was going to suffocate"

"Rubbish Molly" Sherlock replied into her hair. Previously he would have berated her for her ridiculous statement, but realised this time he was mainly just happy that she was ok. "You know better than that, you would have had to have been in there longer and under much dire circumstances"

Molly giggled a little, realising nervously that she had known that all along and had no reason to be scared for her life. Instead, she pulled away from him to look into his eyes "I knew you'd find me"

Sherlock, struggling with the sentiment, merely brought his hand to her hair. The left hand side was cut short. So short that it was almost at the scalp at some places. The right hand side still held its original length.

"Oh please" Irene rolled her eyes, breaking the two of them apart. They had both forgotten that there was another person in the vicinity. "You two make me sick. You especially Sherlock. Years I chased you. Years, and all that time… you were married to your work, you were on a mission, you didn't believe in love. Now look at you, you're pathet…"

Irene stopped mid-sentence, a strange shudder shaking her whole being. Molly realised what was happening before Sherlock did, raising her hands to her mouth to smother a scream. Sherlock, lost and confused looked between the two women, searching for clues.

Irene looked down at her chest, raising her hand to the mess of blood that was forming from a newly formed gunshot wound. She convulsed again, and a second wound appeared. That time, Sherlock had seen the bullet enter.

Realisation dawned and Sherlock sprung into action, pushing Molly back into the car boot for her safety, then rushed forward to lower Irene, whose legs had lost the ability to hold her weight, to the ground. When she was prone on the concrete floor of the parking garage, Sherlock ran to the side of the parking structure. There was a sniper out there somewhere.

Molly crawled out of the car and over to the dying dominatrix, where she immediately pressed her hands to the other woman's chest. There may have been some obvious bad blood between the two, but Molly was still a doctor, and she couldn't just sit back and watch someone die.

Sherlock, who couldn't identify the position of the sniper, was back at her side instantly. "Will she…?"

Molly's look said what she could not bring herself to admit out loud. Her hands and forearms were covered in blood. Sherlock knew how that felt – it had only been a few days before that he had done the same for John.

"Sherlock" Irene croaked, looking up. She was pale, her already alabaster skin taking on a ghost like appearance. "I am about to die"

"Looks like it" Sherlock admitted. Irene then made a dismissing motion to Molly, telling her stop her efforts. The knowledge that it was all pointless was very obvious.

"Hold me" Irene mumbled. Sherlock looked awkwardly from Irene to Molly. A dying woman's dying wish… Molly nodded, giving him permission if he wanted to grant it. Sherlock pulled the woman into his arms, unsure of what to do next. Molly sat in front of the two of them, feeling awkward that she was encroaching on an intimate moment between the two.

"I am sorry, I am sorry, I am so sorry" Irene kept mumbling, over and over. She turned her gaze to Molly. "I am so sorry"

Molly nodded, patting her hand gently. In her dying moments, Irene was asking for forgiveness. She wouldn't be able to live with herself if she didn't forgive the woman. Yes, Irene had made some mistakes in her life, but she had also tried to make amends.

"Sherlock" Irene whispered, wanting to hear his forgiveness. They gaze locked, and she managed to choke out his name once more.

"I am sorry about dinner" was all he said.

Irene laughed breathlessly. "Dinner was a… a euphemism."

Even Molly smiled at that. Sherlock went to tell her that he had known it was a euphemism all along, but when he looked down at her, her eyes were closed and she had stilled. Irene Adler, Professionally known as the woman, was dead.

Sherlock held her for a minute or so before looking up at Molly. She sat back on her heels, her hands covered in Irene's blood from where she had tried to save the other woman. She dealt with dead people all the time, it was her career. However, she had never seen someone die. Never someone she knew. She had never been holding their hand as they took their last breath. And she had never watched the man she loved comfort the woman who loved him in her final minutes on earth. It was a heavy situation to get her head around.

"What next?"

Sherlock rose from his position after gently placing Irene on the ground, and crossed to the parked car, opening the driver's side door to reveal the keys still in the ignition. He turned back to Molly, who had not moved but was watching intently. "Next, you leave"

"No" Molly protested, standing and moving to stand just behind him. "I am not going anywhere"

"You'll only slow me down" he glanced over his shoulder at her, hoping she would read his subtext. He didn't want her there because he didn't want to have to worry about her.

"No, I won't" she replied forcefully.

Sherlock turned to her and placed his hands on her shoulders, pushing her resisting body towards the open door of the car. "Yes, you will. Go and get Lestrade. Get me backup" he removed the gun from the waistband of his trousers and checked the contents of its clip before stating clearly "I am going after Moriarty"

"Then so am I" Molly replied, pushing past him to the tail end of the car. She tried not to look at Irene's body as she picked up her trusty tire iron, swinging it through the air a few times. Sherlock watched the look of determination on her face as she did so.

"Molly" he began.

"No" she raised the tire iron in front of her, holding it between them as though it was a sword. The look on her face was enough to make Sherlock stop in his tracks. The smaller woman was scary when she was in this state. "You are not the only one who has unfinished business with Jim Moriarty. He kidnapped my son. He shot our best friend. He shot at you. He beat me and shoved me into the boot of a car. And let's not forget that he used me to get to you three years ago…"

"I still can't let you go with me" Sherlock interrupted, his agitation growing with each argumentative response of the pathologist

"And why not?" the fight in her was endearing as well as frustrating. "Give me one good reason why not!"

"Because I love you too much to lose you!" he yelled, making her stop in her tracks. As an afterthought he added. "Again"

**A/N: I am sorry if the characterisation is off in this chapter guys. For some reason, it was all a challenge to me. **


	19. Chapter 19

Burning Hearts

Chapter 19

**A/N: Hi all. I am so so so sorry that it took me so long to get this chapter together. A little bit of life being far too busy and a lot of writers block. So sorry guys. Even now I am not totally happy with it. **

Molly looked up at Sherlock, a brief happy look gracing her features before she locked it away again, her face back to its battle mask of determination.

"That's nice Sherlock" she replied, swinging the tire iron and testing its weight.

Sherlock was dumbfounded, for the first time in his life. He had never before told a woman that he loved them, but he was sure that this was not at all how it was supposed to go. Wasn't she supposed to be happier than this? Wasn't she supposed to jump into his arms and pepper his face with kisses? Cry with joy maybe? Wasn't she supposed to do exactly as he said and leave the parking garage so that he could go after their arch nemeses alone?

Maybe she didn't feel the same way. The thought hit him like a freight train. Maybe he had waited too long to come forward with his feelings and she didn't love him anymore. Maybe he had spent too much time pushing her away that he had succeeded and actually pushed her away.

He had always just assumed that Molly would be there. Even all that time ago when he would visit her at St. Barts. He had assumed that she would always be there, waiting with her feelings, for a time when he was ready to consider a romantic relationship. He had assumed she would wait for him while he was away. But now he had taken the biggest step towards a relationship that he could think of, and she was not returning the sentiment.

He felt sick. His heart was beating and it felt like there were angry African fire ants in his belly. Again, he found himself considering why anyone would voluntarily fall in love. This was torture.

Molly looked up at him and softened when she saw the hurt expression on his face. "Oh, Sherlock, I love you too" she told him, in a tone that he recognized. It was a tone that had come from his own lips many times. The bored tone of something being an obvious fact that others had overlooked. "But we can celebrate that later"

Still shocked and confused, Sherlock watched as Molly rounded to the back of the can and began digging through the contents of the boot.

"Molly"

"Don't tell me I am not coming with you" Molly replied, peeking back around at him. Sherlock watched as she found a bottle of filthy looking water, screwed the cap, and began scrubbing at her bloodstained hands.

A thousand more arguments died on Sherlock's lips as he watched her, hands now cleaner, move her attention to her hair. Well, what was left of it, anyway. He heard her sigh sadly.

Molly had never been a vain woman. She never put much thought into her appearance. Clothes and make up where never a priority as they were for all of her friends, but she was scared of what had happened to her hair. She had been growing it for years, keeping it long and healthy, and now it was gone. She didn't know how to react to the loss. It was just hair, after all, and she knew that if she was to mention her anguish to Sherlock he would not understand why it was such an issue, but it was her hair, and it was gone.

She scooped up what was left of it and ran her fingers through it, untangling knots. He father used to do the very same action when she was a little girl, running his hands thought her hai before he messily plaited it down her back for school. The way he used to run his hands through her hair when she was sick. He used to walk past her in the kitchen of their home and pull on her braid when she was in university also. Her hair, she realised in that moment, was her last connection to her father. And Jim had taken that away.

Sherlock stood by her side as she gathered the remaining strands into some semblance of a ponytail so that it was out of the way. She didn't want to think about all that now, and she didn't want to explain it all to Sherlock, even though she could see the question in his eyes. Instead, she picked up the tire iron and muttered "Let's go"

Sherlock didn't try to stop her again, but made sue that he was walking ahead of her, gun drawn as he lead her into the shadowy walkway of the garage. Sherlock knew where Jim would be. Close bun in a secure location, able to see what was happening (he had, after all, controlled the sniper) yet far enough away from the action that he considered himself safe.

They went down a slight of emergency stairs, stopping at the first door for Sherlock to peek around, obviously knowing what he was looking for. Frustratingly, he had not told Molly what that thing was. Whatever it was, it was not there, so he pulled Molly by the hand back to the stairs and continued on to the ground level.

Her hand was shaking slightly in his, but she was holding herself together nicely. she continued to shock him with her strength. Weak was not a word he would ever use to describe his Molly Hooper ever again.

His Molly Hooper. His pathologist. The love of his life. It felt weird for Sherlock to even think it. Weird, but so right.

Molly tightened her grip on the tire iron as they pushed through the door and onto the lower level of the parking garage. "They will be in some sort of security control room, possibly one with monitors, so it is possible that we won't have the element of surprise…"

Sherlock was cut off by a body colliding with his, ripping his hand out of Molly's. He hit the concrete floor of the garage with a thud and found his head spinning as it bounced off of the ground. Jim's fist slimmed into his jaw, pushing it violently to one side. A good old fashioned fist fight was on the cards, it seemed, and not the powerful battle of wits that he had been expecting.

Pinned to the ground, Sherlock allowed his adrenaline to fuel him. Boxing had been a pastime of his at school and much like everything else he had done, he developed exceptional skills in it. He had not needed it in a while however, and he had not partake in it for recreational reason for even longer. He swung his fist, knocking Jim to the side long enough to gain his bearings and look over his should to Molly.

Sebastian had Molly in a death grip, one solid arm around her hips, the other across her neck, constricting her windpipe. Her feet were off the ground, dangling and kicking. Sherlock couldn't drag his eyes away, no matter how he tried. Was he about to see the woman he loved die? Only minutes after the revelation of his feelings?

Moriarty pulled him back into their tussle with a punch to the nose. Sherlock swung again, this time hitting his opponent with such force that eh toppled to the ground. Sherlock unpinned himself and reached for his gun. It was not the poetic ending he or Jim would have wanted, but he was getting sick of the consulting criminal messing about in his life anyway.

Molly fought the best she could against Moran's attack, but the mercenary was bigger and stronger then she was. Instead she focused on Sherlock, who had just overpowered Jim and reached for his gun. He was stringer then her. They were all stronger than her. She was a silly little girl in a big man's game. Sherlock was right, she should have left. She was going to die here in this parking garage at the hands of Moriarty's henchman. She was going to die because she was too proud to listen to Sherlock.

The old cliché of her life flashing before her eyes was absent, but instead, Henry's life flashed before her. The life of her son without her in it. She pictured what it would be like the next morning, him waking up to her gone, being too small to understand what was going on. She pictured him growing up without her, sharing her life with John and Mary and Mycroft, but not having a mother there to look after him. All of the birthdays she would miss. All of the milestones. First day of school, the last day of school, his first date, his wedding day. She would miss all of that. And she knew, it that very moment, that she needed to fight harder.

Molly, with all the strength she had, pulled her flailing legs to her, and then kicked them backwards, hoping to connect with some part of Moran's body. Her aim, it seemed, was perfect, as her heel connected with a sensitive area of the male anatomy. Sebastian dropped her to the ground in a heap and yelped in pain.

Sherlock had just cocked his gun, ready to shoot, when he heard a yelp of pain. A very masculine yelp of pain. He glanced to the side long enough to see Molly on the ground and Sebastian doubled over, red faced and angry. That's his girl, he grinned.

Sherlock's distraction gave Jim enough time to knock the gun from his hands.

Molly was dazed. She had landed awkwardly on her arm when Sebastian had dropped her, and the tingling feeling she now had coursing through her because of it was unpleasant. But she wasn't going to let it distract her too much. She rolled onto her chest and began searching for her weapon of choice, the tire iron.

"You bitch" Sebastian exploded behind her, grabbing her around the middle and flipping her over violently. Molly's hand had been so close to its goal, but now she was being pinned down by a madman, who she had made angry.

Two voices sounded in her mind at once. Henry's voice echoed with a gentle "You can do it mumma". But it was almost drowned out but a second, overpowering voice. The voice of John Watson, rough and military strong commanding "Don't you dare give up!'

She squirmed beneath Sebastian's weight, and Moran, in an attempt to stop her, stuck her across the face. His hands, still holding her hips, shook her violently, pushing her into the floor again. He had cracked her like a whip, for her body bounced off of the concrete, and moved a few inches upward.

Molly lifted her hand above her head quickly, and her fingertips brushed the cold metal of the tire iron. Sebastian had moved her closer to her original goal. She smiled a little to herself, wrapped her fingers around the cool metal of the tire iron, and brought it down on her opponents head.

Sherlock didn't have enough time to beat himself up for hesitating, because soon Jim's fist was doing that for him. His clouded judgement when it came to Molly had stopped him from shooting immediately he had been so proud of her for fighting back against a man twice her size that he had all but forgotten that Jim was still a threat.

The gun had skidded across the garage and come to a stop out of his reach. There was a flurry of fists as the two men continued to fight one another.

For every good punch Sherlock got in, Moriarty got another. It seemed that the pair was evenly matched in all endeavours, even hand to hand combat. Each time Sherlock believed himself to be gaining the upper hand in the situation, Moriarty would play to one of his weaknesses. A punch to the ribs that he had kicked earlier. A punch to the nose that we still tender from the other day when John had beaten him on the rooftop of Barts. The occasional gouge to the eyes.

After one well-placed punch to the throat from him, he had managed to change their positions. The criminal once again pinning the detective to the ground. The time, instead of punching at the other man, Moriarty leant all his weight forward, placed his hands against the long, slender neck of Sherlock Holmes, and applied pressure.

It seemed Moriarty and his gang enjoyed asphyxiating people. This was the third time in a hour or so that he or Molly had been choked, that he knew of, at least. It made sense, Sherlock realised, as his world began to spin around him, since there were all so good at it.

"At my hands, this will end" Jim began, gripping Sherlock's neck tighter. Sherlock made an unusual bubbling noise in his throat as he fought to take a breath. "I didn't want it to end this way, Sherlock. It was never my intention for it to get violent. At least not like this. I had hoped we would play a few more games, but it seems… this is the end. You should have known, you'd never stop Jim Moriarty"

As Sherlock fought one last time against the temping pull of his consciousness, he heard a bang, and was released. He blinked into his confusion, rubbing his neck. Moriarty lay beside him, and he was laughing.

There was a gunshot wound on the criminal's arm, the same arm and almost same position that he had grazed Sherlock. He knew his brain should have been quicker at piecing together the evidence, but he had to physically turn towards the shooter to confirm what had happened.

Doctor Molly Hooper stood, shaking, the gun still clasped in her outstretched arms. Sherlock looked from her to the criminal. Molly had shot Jim, to save him.

It was not a lethal shot, not by any means. Jim lay on the ground, laughing up at the ceiling as though the funniest joke he had ever heard was there. His arm was bleeding. Sherlock struggled to his feet, and crossed to Molly, prying the gun from her grip.

"You did well" he whispered, kissing her forehead gently. He looked over his shoulder to where Moran was lying, still as death, with the tire iron beside him. Never would he underestimate this woman again.

"I just" She began, pausing to find the right words "Adrenaline, I guess"

"Irene was right about something" Jim announced from his prone position on the floor. "You two are pathetic… delusional too. Do you really think that that is all it is going to take? Do you really think that one bullet to the arm is all it will take to stop James Moriarty. I am like a cat, I have so many lives. I keep coming back, baby. You can't stop me, no one can. No one will ever stop Jim Moriarty"

Another gunshot rang through the concrete parking garage. Jim slumped, and stopped talking.

"Really" Sherlock sighed. "Maybe that one will stop you"

Molly looked closely at the scene before her. James Moriarty, bleeding from a wound right between the eyes. Sherlock had killed him. She buried her head into his chest, wrapping her arms around his middle. It was over. It was all over.

Sherlock held her to his chest, resting his cheek on the top of her head. It was peaceful moment in which they caught up to themselves and the knowledge that it was all over.

Another loud bang startled them, and they separated, but this time, it was the sound of the door to the parking garage being flung open, and a familiar face led the charge of police officers who ran onto the scene.

"How did I know that when I was called in to investigate a report of gunfire, I would bump into you two?" Lestrade asked lowering his gun and approaching the couple as the police swept the area. He looked closely at the two of them before exclaiming "Molly, your hair!"

Molly dimissed it. Not caring at that very moment. They were interrupted by Donovan, who came up behind them. "Single victim, male, mid 30s, believed to be James Moriarty"

"Single victim" Molly questions "There is also Moran, he is just over…"

Molly turned the trio toward where she had left Moran. The tire iron was there, but the body of the mercenary was nowhere to be seen.

"He was… he was there" Molly stammered, not believing her own eyes. "I hit him myself, he was out cold, I had thought maybe I had killed him."

"It's ok Molls" Lestrade began, stroking her arm. "We'll find him. With a head injury, he can't have gone far. We're going to need you to go to Scotland Yard and give a statement"

Molly nodded and watched as Lestrade left to continue his investigations. Sherlock gently wrapped his hand around hers, pulling her closer to him in a comforting gesture. Molly looked up at him and smiled gently.

"So" She began "What now?"

**Just letting you know this is the second last chapter of this story, but I think that I am planning a sequel, so stay tuned. **


	20. Chapter 20

**Burning Hearts**

**Chapter 20 - Epilogue**

6 weeks later.

John Watson couldn't help but stare at himself in the mirror. His reflection stared back at him, avoiding eye contact, as something else grabbed his attention. His chest, scarred with two bullet holes, offended him.

The addition of the chest wound to his collection made him ache in more ways than one. Physically, obviously, as he was still healing and the wound was tender and itchy. But the wound had also changed him emotionally. Not in the same post traumatic stress way his shoulder had, but in an unusual, carpe diem sort of way.

He was not ten foot tall and bulletproof as the last few years with Sherlock had lead him to believe. It was time he started living his life. And it seemed, with the help of a discussion with Mycroft, Mary felt the same way.

He had been awake from his post gunshot coma only an hour before Mary proposed to him. It was awkward for him as he was groggy and under the impression that he had already asked her to marry him. Mary had just smiled when he had voiced that, and replied "No, I mean, literally, as soon as possible, let's get married"

The planning of the wedding had honestly kept him sane in his recovery period in the hospital, even if it was driving Mary mad. They had agreed that although they wanted to marry as soon as they could, neither wanted to do it in hospital. And John, who had been on intense bed rest, wanted to be standing on his own two feet when he married the woman of his dreams.

As they discussed plans they realised that actually wanted a wedding, not just running down to city hall to sign the papers. So between physical therapy and being a sounding board for Sherlock's 'Now, I need to find Moran' plans, he found himself planning a wedding.

There was a tap on the door. John turned, pulling his shirt on quickly and doing up the buttons. He had become self-conscious about his body since the second shooting. Not that he was ever one to flaunt it before, but he had never cared previously if someone saw him shirtless. Now, not even Mary had seen his additional wound, preferring to wear shirts around her at all times. He knew it was silly, she loved him regardless, but he didn't want to draw attention to it.

Sherlock entered without waiting for John to respond. He paused awkwardly just inside the room, and cleared his throat to get John's attention, a trick he pulled when he was about to say something really serious, but a little nerve wracking. "I was told, by Molly, obviously, that it is customary for the best man to give the groom a gift before the wedding"

John looked shocked as Sherlock reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a black box. He held it out hesitantly.

"Sherlock, you didn't have too" John began, taking it slowly. Sherlock dismissed him, indicating that he should open the box. They had never exchanged gifts before, even at Christmas time. John popped the box open, to be greeted with the nicest wrist watch he had ever seen. "Sherlock, I…"

"Don't insult me by saying you can't accept it" Sherlock replied, standing uneasily. John extended his hand to shake that of his friend, then realising that the action seemed hollow for the situation; John pulled his friend into a hug. Sherlock, to his credit, returned the sentimental gesture briefly.

"I am glad you're here for this" John admitted as they separated, taking the watch out of the box and securing it on his wrist. "When I was going to propose to Mary, before I knew you were alive, I was upset that you wouldn't be by my side today."

"Sentiment" Sherlock spat. John laughed, taking his tie off of the dresser.

"You don't get to degrade Sentiment anymore Sherlock." John smirked, tying his tie expertly. "You have a son and girlfriend now"

Sherlock made a noise in his throat that sounded a little like disgust. "Girlfriend. I despise that word. I am 35 years old. I do not have a girlfriend"

"Then what would you prefer Molly was called" John asked, picking up the second tie from the dresser and tossing it to Sherlock. Sherlock rolled his eyes at it. He hated wearing ties, but was making an exception today for John and Mary. "Partner, companion, lover…"

"None of the above." Sherlock replied, struggling to remember how to tie the tie. It had been years since he had worn one, probably since his schooling days when it had been part of the required uniform. "She's just my Molly"

John smirked; he had noticed that Sherlock had taken to introducing Molly that way in public in the last six weeks. "This is my Molly". It would sound unusual and possessive out of anyone else's mouth, but the way Sherlock said it, with so much adoration in his eyes, it never seemed weird.

Only days after Moran's escape, Sherlock had moved completely out of Baker Street and into Molly's flat. It was his wedding present to them, he told them, freeing up the bigger bedroom with the ensuite and the walk in robe. But the gift didn't end there. Mary, who had been pulling long hours at the hospital, both working and visiting, returned home one day to Sherlock ordering a gaggle of contractors around the now empty bedroom. Now the master suite had new tiling and fixtures in the bathroom, his and hers matching robes, polished hard wood floors and a colour scheme that matched the rest of the house. Sherlock had even, with the help of Molly, moved all of their personal possessions downstairs into the room.

Looking at himself in the mirror and deciding what to do with his hair, John paused. The sight of his hand in his reflection caught his attention. He was about to put a ring on his finger, and he would never really see his hand without it again.

"Will you ever marry Molly?" John asked suddenly.

It was an interesting question. Sherlock didn't quite know how to answer. Two months ago, if someone asked him if he ever intended on marrying his Molly, he would have flat out said no. she wasn't even really his molly then. She was a woman on the other side of the world who dominated his mind and looked after his son. The idea of sentiment still shocked him. He had told Molly he loved her, but he had only done so a few times over the last month and a bit (once in the parking garage. Once when she had pointed out a piece of medical evidence that he had missed in an investigation that he was assisting Lestrade in and once, whilst they had been…consummating their reunion.)

He had never considered marriage. He was in his first ever relationship, and while it was later in life, he still didn't quite understand exactly what all of his feelings meant. Molly was helping him collect that data, however.

The door behind them opened, and at first the men through that there was no one there. Then they noticed Henry, walking in, wearing a matching black suit to the other two men, and looking more and more like a mini-Sherlock. The detective couldn't help but smile down at the young man. The youngster looked up at Sherlock expectantly, and then held out a tie that matched his own.

"You need assistance?" Sherlock asked. He was taking a little while to get used to talking with Henry. He was a smart kid, as Molly had told him, but Sherlock was not used to talking to people who were still developing. He reached down, lifted his son onto the dresser so that he was eye height, and began working on tying it.

When he was finished, Sherlock lowered his son to the ground. Before he ran off, probably back to the living room to play, the child looked up at him and said "Thank you Dada"

That was taking some getting used to, but Sherlock noticed very early on he enjoyed being called Dad. It was heart-warming, especially since he and Mycroft had grown in a home where they were required to call Jameson 'Father' – to be Mama and Dada to Henry (Or Da, sometimes, which he kind of enjoyed even more) was a nice, normal feeling.

"Well, don't you all look charming?" a voice startled them and they turned to its owner. Molly stood, in the doorway, in a flowing blue dress, her new pixie cut styled fashionably under a headband of soft silver (which matched the shoes she wore, impressive heels that made her taller.) She had a camera in her hands, and Sherlock would bet all of the sizable Holmes fortune that she had just taken a photograph of him tying Henry's tie. Henry hovered by her knee.

Sherlock had never seen anything so beautiful in her life. He was the luckiest man alive.

"I believe it is bad form to outshine the bride on her special day" Sherlock said sincerely, leaning down to kiss her gently on the cheek. Molly blushed. After everything they had been through, Sherlock Holmes could still make her blush.

"I brought these for you" she grinned, holding up three buttonhole flowers. She handed one to John, then pinned one to Henry's suit jacket before turning to Sherlock. He watched as she pinned it to his lapel, lifting his hand to play with his tie.

"Stop that" she smiled softly, swatting his hand away "It's a short ceremony, and then you can take it off. Ties do suit you, you know"

"Blue suits you" Sherlock complimented, his hand coming to rest on the inside of her wrist. The pulse there was steady and slightly elevated.

Molly leant in closer, with the shoes their height difference was not as noticeable, so she only had to extend a little further before her lips were grazing distance from his. Sherlock's arms wrapped around her, pulling her closer. His eyes fluttered shut first in anticipation of the kiss they were about to share.

Molly groaned and pulled away, shooting him a 'not now' look. Sherlock hid his look of disappointment as she turned away from him. "Ten minutes until show time"

"I will, one day" Sherlock said suddenly, seconds after Molly had left the room.

John looked puzzled. "Huh?"

"Marry Molly" Sherlock replied. "One day"

John smiled and slapped Sherlock on the back. "Well, until then, it's my turn…Let's go get me married"

**A/N: I want to thank everyone for all of the support you've shown me in this little story. It was really heart-warming to log on every day and see all the reviews and follows and notifications. Love you all. Now remember, the adventures of Sherlock, Henry and Molly will continue in the sequel to this – which right now doesn't have a name. But it will be out in the next few days, so please keep an eye out. **

**In the words of Sherlock Holmes "Laterz" **


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